


Consortium

by dracoqueen22



Series: The Prime's Consorts [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amalgamated Universe, Arranged Marriage, Consent discussions, M/M, Off-screen Sexual Content, Political Marriages, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:34:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 63,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27676124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: A Prime should be supported, they tell him. A Prime should have advisors and allies who will stand by him as he rules. They are to help shoulder the burden, to keep their Prime standing tall. They are meant to be more than berthmates.Newly-appointed Optimus Prime now has a month to convince the ten Consorts the senate has chosen for him - ten relative strangers, most of whom have no desire whatsoever to be there - that he’s nothing like his predecessors, and that his vision for the future is one worthy of their support.He has his work cut out for him.
Relationships: Hot Rod/Optimus Prime, Ironhide/Optimus Prime, Jazz/Optimus Prime, Jetfire | Skyfire & Optimus Prime, Optimus Prime & Prowl, Optimus Prime & Soundwave, Optimus Prime & Sunstreaker, Optimus Prime & Ultra Magnus, Optimus Prime/Ratchet, Optimus Prime/Starscream
Series: The Prime's Consorts [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2044354
Comments: 499
Kudos: 356





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SunnySidesofBlue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunnySidesofBlue/gifts).



Optimus Prime’s chest aches.

Everything aches, truth be told. His new frame is unwieldy, large and uncomfortable. He feels awkward and coltish, even weeks after the transformation. His center of balance has shifted, his shoulders are too broad, and he’s a good foot taller at least.

The Matrix will settle in time, they tell him, but they can’t be more specific than that. It’s different for every Prime, they tell him. It took Sentinel a decade before he fully embraced the Matrix. Prima engaged with the Matrix almost immediately.

There’s a long span of time between immediately and a decade.

Optimus rubs at his chassis, the Matrix heavier within him than it logistically should be. Heavier still is the burden now resting on his shoulders: the rulership of an entire planet and its people. He has the Senate to assist him, and various other ruling bodies, but there is none so singularly known as the Prime.

Orion Pax had been sparked an archivist. A librarian. He would have never imagined the Matrix choosing him. He could not have seen himself becoming Optimus Prime in the future.

It seems a dream.

Optimus sighs and returns his attention to his datapad, idly clicking through the assembled information. He had not been allowed to bring much with him to the estate, but he’d smuggled this particular datapad within a newly acquired storage compartment on his frame. There’s a wealth of information here -- libraries worth of knowledge about the Primes, about the Matrix, about the… Consorts.

Yes. Consorts. As in plural.

A Prime should be supported, they tell him. A Prime should have advisors and allies, those who will stand behind him as he rules. These allies should be intelligent, varied in their talents, with a connection to the people of Cybertron, one more easily forged than the leader who stands above. They are to help shoulder the burden, to keep their Prime standing tall. They are meant to be more than berthmates.

The tradition of the Consort began shortly after Nominus’ reign. Immediately after, Solus was granted two to assist her with Cybertron’s swelling population and ever widening reach. The number of Consorts has continued to expand over the millennia to match the ruling Prime’s need.

Optimus has ten.

Ten.

It is, by far, the most a single Prime has engaged. Cybertron has grown, so many of the city-states vying for power, each of them desperate to have their nominated individual stand beside the Prime. The Senate, in their infinite wisdom, had only been able to restrain themselves to ten.

Optimus has had the Matrix for a month. Now he’ll have a month to claim his Consorts, and then he’ll be fit to rule. But Optimus is under no illusions. There’s only one Consort he can be certain is here absolutely willingly. As for the others, well, Optimus anticipates a very tense, uncomfortable quote-unquote honeymoon.

They’ve gone through the formalities already. One by one, they’ve spoken the words to verbally and legally bond in public. Optimus has met his Consorts in brief. He knows their names, their faces. His research has given him some insight into their character. But he doesn’t know them.

Thus, the estate where he now finds himself with his nine Consorts -- soon to be ten once the last arrives -- and the month they have to become familiar with each other. Every Prime in history, save Nominus, had been granted this time to not only physically bond with their Consort, but also form a more personal connection

Optimus also suspects the month allows for quiet gears to turn in the background of the political machine while the Prime is not around to see them.

An unusual jolt in his chassis stirs Optimus from his thoughts. Warmth floods after, filling his field with a familiarity which grows closer by the second, moving down the hallway toward his door.

Optimus sets his datapad aside and rises, palming open his door only to find Ultra Magnus on the other side of it, hand poised to press the intercom.

Well, isn’t that an interesting aspect of their new bond?

"Did you know I was here?" Ultra Magnus asks, surprise vibrant in his field before he smooths it out.

Optimus touches his chassis along his central seam. "It seems to be a side effect of our new bond," he says. "Though not an unwelcome one." That the Matrix recognizes Ultra Magnus as a comfort to him can only be a good thing.

"I'm surprised it wasn't in your research," Ultra Magnus says as Optimus gestures him inside.

"Previous Primes weren't very forthcoming on their experiences," Optimus admits as he returns to his chair, trying to ignore the exhaustion creeping into his struts. He doesn’t have time to be fatigued. "How are things?"

Ultra Magnus takes a seat beside him, a datapad emerging from his subspace. "Everyone has settled into their respective quarters for now. It's a good opportunity for us to discuss strategy."

A smile curls the edge of Optimus' lips. "Strategy? Do you see this as a war, Magnus?"

"I see it as a battle to be fought, though words will be your weapon of choice." Ultra Magnus' field reaches for him, tentative at first, in its offer of solidarity. "I needed only a few moments of interaction with the other Consorts to surmise how daunting this task will be for you."

Optimus had arrived on a separate transport, while Ultra Magnus had travelled with the other Consorts. Optimus has yet to inform the others of his and Ultra Magnus’ previous friendship. He worries it might cause fears of favoritism. He intends to tell them eventually, of course, but it seemed more prudent to wait until they were all at the manor.

"Well," Ultra Magnus amends after a moment, head tilted as though recalling something specific, a small grin curving his mouth. "Save one of them."

Optimus huffs a laugh. "Hot Rod?"

"Yes. That one." A cross look flutters over Ultra Magnus' face before he smooths it out again. "He's charming and a bit naive, but his enthusiasm and genuine delight should help you."

Optimus sits back, rapping his fingers on the arm of the chair. "You think I should speak with him first?"

"I think he's going to be the easiest to convince because he's already convinced," Ultra Magnus says dryly. "Unlike the others, Hot Rod volunteered."

"You volunteered," Optimus points out.

Ultra Magnus gives him a look, and his field turns warm and affectionate. "I did, but for different reasons than the Nyon nominate. I wanted to support you." He smiles, slow and mischievous, like few have seen from him. "Hot Rod, I suspect, is simply eager to serve."

"It's a relief to have at least two who won't be trouble." Still, two out of ten are not great odds. Optimus is neither a diplomat nor a politician, and right now, Ultra Magnus’ insights are invaluable to him. "What are your impressions of the others?"

Ultra Magnus cycles a ventilation. "Starscream is the angriest, at least that he'll show. Prowl is too practical to allow his emotion anywhere to be seen." He scrubs the heel of his palm down his thigh. "Jazz is full of smiles, but I don't trust that one's mask, and Soundwave might as well have been carved from steel for all I read from him."

Optimus makes notations as he listens, adding to the research he's already put into his Consorts once he learned of their nominations. If there’s one thing being a data archivist taught him, it is the value of information.

"Ratchet is... cantankerous and makes no attempts to hide it. In that, he's perhaps the most honest about how he feels while Ironhide's distaste for his circumstances is more of a sullen grump." Ultra Magnus lifts and drops his shoulders. "As for Sunstreaker, his field was full of razor-wire. He's a tightly coiled viper, waiting to strike."

Optimus ventilates a sigh, murmuring, "How like the Senate to burden me with a cadre of Consorts likely to bicker and cause trouble, rather than provide support as they were initially meant to do."

"You have your work cut out for you," Ultra Magnus agrees.

"Then it's a good thing I have you in my corner." Optimus leans over, rests his hand over Ultra Magnus' in a gentle squeeze. The ring of his spark where their bond resides hums at him, flushing Optimus with warmth, as though Magnus is within him, a comforting embrace. "Thank you, my friend. I don't know if I can ever say it enough."

Ultra Magnus turns his wrist and takes Optimus' hand in his, threading their fingers together. "It is what friends are for," he murmurs. "Besides, it wasn't entirely selfless of me. The best way to enact change is from the inside, and if I am Consort to the Prime, I will eventually have more freedom to act."

"How did Tyrest take it?" Optimus asks.

Ultra Magnus' lips form a thin line. "He was... disappointed, but one can't argue with a Consort nomination. He knows the law even better than I. He'll simply have to find a new potential successor."

"And you're not disappointed it won't be you?" Optimus asks.

It's a question that's been bothering him from the moment Ultra Magnus appeared in his ledger as a nominate. How had Ultra Magnus convinced Senator Shockwave to support his nomination? How had they both convinced the Senate to name Ultra Magnus as the Consort representing Iacon?

It is a part of a political quagmire that Optimus has always been apart from as Orion Pax. He has no choice now but to entrench himself in the muck. He didn’t think anyone would willingly throw themselves into the Pit, but Ultra Magnus has, and for reasons Optimus doesn’t know he will ever fully grasp.

Optimus wonders if his dear friend might come to resent this choice though it's too late now. The deed is done, the vow has been made, the bond has settled into place.

Optimus worries still.

Ultra Magnus is quiet for a moment, careful to choose his words as always, his thumb rubbing along the back of Optimus' hand. "Succeeding Tyrest has always been his dream, not mine. While I thought it was the path to influencing the law as I hoped, I feel I can do more here. So no. I'm not disappointed." He squeezes Optimus' hand. "This is how much faith I have in you."

"I promise not to disappoint then," Optimus says, as pleased by Ultra Magnus' trust in him as he is burdened by it, his shoulders sinking under the weight of expectation. His new frame is stronger, but he wonders if it is strong enough.

This, however, he keeps to himself.

"There is no possibility of you doing so." Ultra Magnus offers him a gentle smile before he lets go of Optimus’ hand, allowing him to take it back. "Now I am going to walk around and get a feel for the layout of this place. I suggest you find Hot Rod. You'll need as many allies as you can muster."

"Your advice, my friend, is worth its weight in duryllium."

Ultra Magnus smiles, and Optimus’ spark hums with the strength of their shared trust.

~

Each of the Consorts has private, spacious quarters throughout the estate. Optimus' suite should have been the largest, as he’s expected to entertain his Consorts, but he’d opted for a slightly smaller hab-suite instead. In deference to his tenth Consort who happens to be a shuttle and arguably, the largest of those expected to reside here for them.

Still, all of the private rooms would be the envy of many a noble in Iridium Towers.

Hot Rod's suite is on the ground floor, tucked in a cozy alcove just beyond the recreation room. He greets Optimus with a bouncing smile at the door, his blue optics bright and youthful, his armor painted in shades of fire.

"Prime, sir, come on in," he says with a deeply exaggerated bow and a sweep of his hands. "Excuse the mess. I'm unpacking."

If that's what he calls various belongings strewn about the room, unpacking it is, Optimus supposes. It better looks like someone put a bomb in his suitcases, and Hot Rod left the detritus where it landed.

"You can call me Optimus. I do not think we should worry too much about formality," Optimus says as he brushes a clump of unfolded polishing cloths from a chair. Did Hot Rod honestly think he wouldn’t be supplied with any? "We are going to be bonded soon."

"Just bonded?" Hot Rod asks with raised orbital ridges and a cheeky grin. He bobs on his heels, the two halves of his spoiler jutting from behind his shoulders in a mimicry of a Seeker’s wings, though his polished tires offer proof of his wheeled alt-mode.

Optimus, despite himself, chuckles. "Well, that is what I am here to talk about actually. I would like to know your expectations of me, and how I can make our future more pleasant for you."

"Huh." Hot Rod scratches at his cheek as he sinks down to perch at the end of the bed. "I didn't really think that far ahead. I guess as long you don't, you know, smack me around and stuff, I should be happy."

Optimus blinks. "Smack you... no, Hot Rod. I would never do that." A wisp of cold winds around his chassis at the mere thought of someone doing harm to this bright spark. "And if anyone does hurt you in such a way, tell me immediately."

Hot Rod holds up his hands. "I didn't think you would, sir. Don't worry." He pales a little, looking more uncomfortable about the reassurance than seems reasonable.

Then again, Hot Rod does carry the air of someone who's been taught to respect and revere the office of the Prime, probably since the moment he was sparked. He's likely worried about insulting Optimus, however accidentally.

Optimus cycles a careful ventilation. “I am grateful for your trust in me, though I have yet to earn it,” he says with a gentle smile. “If there is anything you can think of, you are welcome to speak with me at any time.”

“Unless you’re busy with one of the others, right?” Hot Rod waggles his orbital ridges in a telling manner, his earlier discomfort gone in a flash. His quicksilver emotions will take some getting used to, though Optimus must admit, he is grateful Hot Rod is so easy to read.

Optimus chuckles. “I do not know if that will ever be an issue, but yes. If I am… occupied with another Consort, you should probably wait.”

“Pfft.” Hot Rod leans back, legs swinging, one hand giving a dismissive flick. “Have you looked in the mirror, sir? I don’t think you’re going to have much of a problem convincing anyone into your berth.” He pauses, his optics widen, and then his face takes on a hot sheen. “I mean, um…”

Ultra Magnus was right.

Hot Rod is impossibly charming.

“Thank you,” Optimus says as the last of the tension drains from his shoulders. Hot Rod is refreshingly open and honest, and his field echoes his words, warm with invitation and a fair share of interest. “I appreciate the compliment.”

Hot Rod scratches at his jaw and looks up at the ceiling. “You’re welcome,” he says. “And, uh, so you know, you can count me as one of those who are… interested.” He coughs into his palm and still finds the ceiling fascinating.

“I will keep that in mind,” Optimus says, and yes, he’s tempted. Hot Rod is a beautiful mech, with his bright paint -- garish though it might be -- and his flicking spoiler, and his enthusiasm.

Right now, however, Optimus must continue to avoid potential cries of favoritism. He needs every one of his Consorts to be on the same page, with boundaries firmly delineated, before he can allow himself to indulge.

“Okay.” Hot Rod’s gaze finally finds Optimus again, and he sucks on his bottom lip before he hops off the berth and gets closer to Optimus, only to stick out his hand. “I don’t know if I’m going to be of much political use to you, but I met those other Consorts of yours, and I gotta say: good luck, sir. They’re an unhappy bunch.”

“You are right about that,” Optimus says, and he takes Hot Rod’s hand, pleased by the firm grip the younger mech offers him. He has a frame built more for speed than strength, but there’s confidence in the handshake he offers.

Hot Rod beams, his spoiler halves flicking up and down, wiggling in a cheerful dance. “I promise I’ll help, too. You know, talk you up and tell them how nice you are.” He winks.

Optimus chuckles. “I appreciate it, but I don’t think it is necessary. I intend to win them over on my own merits.”

“Nothing wrong with a little help now and again.” Hot Rod tugs Optimus’ hand closer, turning it over to brush his lips over Optimus’ palm, somehow both chaste and forward. He looks up at Optimus, his ex-vents warm along Optimus’ derma. “My Prime.”

Heat blooms across Optimus’ face before he can fight it down. “You can call me Optimus, remember?”

“I do.” Hot Rod grins up at him, echoes of confidence in the look, as he lets Optimus’ hand slip through his fingers. “We’re having a community refueling tonight, yeah?”

“Yes. It is a good opportunity to get to know one another,” Optimus says. He has hopes, anyway, that by the end, they will be a tightly-knit group who can rely on one another.

The look Hot Rod gives him is full of sympathy. “Should be fun,” he says. “Can’t wait.”

~

Optimus is one of the last to arrive for the community refueling, partially by design, and partially by accident. He'd gotten distracted notating his observations about Hot Rod and lost track of the hour, his sense of time still struggling to adjust after acquiring the Matrix.

The atrium is one of the largest communal spaces, with wide windows and a skylight made of stained transsteel through which the dimming false-sun glitters. The circular table in the middle is large enough to fit each of his Consorts, the assembled chairs adjustable for the sake of their varying heights and frame types. There is no assigned seating, and Optimus takes note of where -- and by whom -- the Consorts have chosen to sit.

"I apologize for my lateness," Optimus says as he enters, noting that no one has touched the various goodies and engexes in the lavish spread. "If it should happen again, feel free to begin without me. There is no reason any of you should wait on me."

He counts them -- still nine without Skyfire -- and notes who meets his gaze and who is indifferent. Hot Rod had been correct. The combined fielding in this room is one of anger and irritation and distrust.

The Senate has certainly set a daunting task before him.

Optimus sits between Ultra Magnus and a beaming Hot Rod, who is all but wriggling in his chair, spoiler twitching in a barely restrained dance. It's impossible not to return the mech's sunny smile, so Optimus does, his spark feeling lighter in Hot Rod's presence.

"Is this going to be a thing?" Starscream asks, as close to across from Optimus as one can be considering the shape of the table. He's leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, fingers interlaced. He's the only Seeker among Optimus' Consorts. "This communal gathering?"

Optimus cycles a steadying ventilation, bracing himself for the battle ahead. "Yes, Starscream," he says. "I would like us to get to know one another, and this is the most efficient way to do so."

"Mm, we're strangers after all," Starscream says, and Optimus isn't sure if it's meant to be a dig or a pointed observation.

Optimus inclines his head. "I am aware how difficult this will be. I hope to make it as easy as I can." He stands, chair scraping backward in an irritating screech. "To that end, may I please have everyone's attention?"

"You're the Prime. It's not like you need to ask," drawls the smallest of Optimus' Consorts, a black and white mech by the name of Jazz, whose lazy smile doesn't match the sharpness in his visor.

He is one Optimus has preemptively marked as trouble, if only because the file he’d been able to gather had been suspiciously sanitized.

"My predecessors might have thought that way, but I do not." Optimus clasps his hands behind his back and tries to meet their gazes, one by one. "You have been nominated to be my Consorts, and I know that for many of you, this is not a choice but an obligation. It is not a fortuitous way to start any relationship, much less one meant to be a support."

Ratchet, the medic, sits back in his chair and arches an orbital ridge at Optimus. "Support?" he echoes as he crosses his arms. "Is that what they're calling political berthmates these days?"

Beside him, the black-armored warrior snorts, his lips curved with amusement. Ironhide says nothing, but the hard look in his optics speak volumes.

"It is what the Consort role has become, this is true," Optimus concedes. "But it is not what I wish to make of it. I only want from each of you that which you are willing to give me."

"And if we don't, it's fine with you, is that it?" Starscream challenges, his wings flick-flicking behind him, betraying his agitation. "You'll have your favorites, and the rest of us will have no use."

Optimus frowns. "Whether or not you share my berth will have no bearing on anything else."

"I suppose we'll just have to take your word on that," Starscream says.

"It's coercion in all but name," Sunstreaker murmurs as if he thinks Optimus hadn't heard it, sinking lower in his chair, staring hard at the table. He is the only Consort who hasn't met Optimus' gaze, though his armor is so polished and immaculate, he outshines everyone.

He is somehow managing to demand to be noticed, while shouting to be ignored.

"Maybe we should give him a chance?" Hot Rod says, giving Optimus an anxious glance before smiling at the others. "It's kind of rude to assume he's like all the other Primes, isn't it? I mean, it’s not his fault we’re here. He didn’t even get to pick us."

Starscream rolls his optics. "Yes, let's listen to the colony mech." One orbital ridge arches, his tone turning snide and judgmental. "The Senate's offering them younger and younger these days."

"Younger?" Ironhide snorts a laugh. "Did ya even look at this side of the table, mech? I can't figure out who's older, me or this one." He jerks a thumb toward Ratchet.

"I've been in your internals, Ironhide. Pretty sure it’s you," Ratchet says dryly.

"I'm just saying--"

"Yes, we know what you are saying, Hot Rod, but unfortunately, the Seeker is correct," Prowl interrupts, and his toneless voice cuts through the brewing jibes between Ratchet and Ironhide. The other black and white mech at the table, Optimus knows of Prowl through reputation alone -- an Enforcer with a uniquely high arrest rate. "You are too young to know the history of the Primes and their Consorts. We are right to be cautious."

Ultra Magnus cycles a ventilation and says, "Cautious, yes. But we must be careful not to judge preemptively. If we want our voices to be heard, we're more likely to succeed through diplomacy, not by shouting over one another."

"We're not here to be diplomats, we're here to warm a berth and keep our noses out of trouble," Ratchet says with a snort. "Don’t be dumb. You know why we got picked."

"Those may be the reasons you were selected, but it is not what I intend for you," Optimus says, trying to regain control of the conversation before it slips away from him. This is a large room, but it is far too small for so many forceful personalities. "I do not want to make this a cage, and I want to do whatever is in my power to help you get back as much as was taken."

Sunstreaker's cup crackles in his hold. "You can't call it freedom if there are choices we can't make," he says, and his jaw sets, his face a mask of barely concealed fury. "We're owned by you, and we'll never forget that."

"I dunno. Seems to me there could be worse gigs." Jazz plucks one of the treats and pops it into his mouth, the very picture of calm poise as he leans back and crosses his ankles on the edge of the table. "Gotta room all to myself, and all this good eating, and a private washroom. Pretty swank."

"Price paid in frame," says Soundwave, the first he's spoken since the gathering began, and his voice -- like his masked and visored face -- gives away nothing of his emotional state.

Jazz shrugs. "Cheap price."

"Speak for yourself," Starscream hisses. He lurches to his feet, palms slamming onto the table. "I have more respect than that."

"That's not what I hear," Jazz says with a flick of another treat into his mouth.

"You--"

"The implication is moot because I do not want anyone in my berth," Optimus says, louder to be heard over the Seeker's hissing anger. Prowl wisely leans out of the line of fire between Jazz and Starscream. "I would like advisors, yes. I would like support, allies, friends if at all possible, but I would never insist anyone enter my berth who does not want to be there."

"Pretty words and empty promises will never be enough to buy my loyalty, Prime," Starscream sneers, Optimus' title dripping with venom. "I've had enough of being manipulated, and I won't stand for it now."

He shoves back, away from the table, and stomps out of the room, wings high and rigid, his field a maelstrom of emotion. It stings, like a physical smack to the face, and Optimus flinches.

"He's not the only one who's heard this all before," Sunstreaker says in the hanging silence. He stands, scooping one of the engex decanters from the table. "It's usually followed by a knife in the back." He tips his head. "Good night, sir."

He, too, leaves, and though his field is much more contained than Starscream's, the defeat is just as sharp.

Optimus scrubs a hand over his forehead. "I am trying to be honest," he says, as the door whooshes shut behind Sunstreaker. "This will be difficult for everyone. I want to make this situation as simple as I can."

"Some things are complicated, ain't no two ways about it." Ironhide grabs a cup and chugs some of the engex, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "No pretty words are gonna fix what the Senate broke. At least, not right now."

"But as Ultra Magnus has already said, there is no harm in listening, and no harm in giving you a chance." Prowl rises, and Optimus can read nothing from him, like a wall has been constructed around his entire frame, barring entrance to even his field. "I'd like a moment of your time to discuss the parameters of our relationship, sir. Perhaps we can schedule a conversation sometime tomorrow?"

Rules. Guidelines. Prowl thrives in those, Optimus guesses. He supposes it's a start. With rules, Optimus will have boundaries, and by respecting those boundaries, he may be able to win Prowl's trust and loyalty.

Every victory is rust in the Senate's machinations.

"We have plenty of time, Prowl. Seek me out whenever you wish," Optimus says. "I will make myself available to you."

Prowl inclines his head and excuses himself from the table.

"Guess that means we're done for the night." Ironhide rises, stretching with a creak and a groan. "This is going to be fun." He swipes one of the bottles of high grade from the table and tucks it under his arm. "Night, Prime. See you tomorrow."

"Good night, Ironhide." Optimus sits back down, feeling the weight of his failure on his shoulders. "And yes, I do believe that is all for tonight. I appreciate the opportunity to speak nonetheless."

Ratchet snorts. "Look at you, only a month into the Matrix and you already sound like a Prime." He shifts toward Hot Rod, clapping a hand on the younger mech's shoulder. "Find me tomorrow, kiddo. I hear a rattle in your vents, and it's gonna annoy me until I fix it."

"I'm not actually a sparkling, you know," Hot Rod says.

"Live as long as I do, and everyone's a sparkling," Ratchet retorts.

Soundwave leaves as well, with nothing but a nod in Optimus' direction, as Jazz stands, faking a yawn and a languorous stretch.

"You sure know how to throw a party, Prime." He snatches a tray of goodies and tosses Optimus a wink. "The rest of them don't know what they're missing. I, for one, am looking forward to performing my duties." He grins, salacious and proud, before he swaggers out, munching loudly on the treats.

Optimus swallows a shiver.

Jazz's flirtations do not carry any of the heat of Hot Rod's. It feels like a performance, as much as his smile and his nonchalance. Optimus might never have seen it, if not for the Matrix stirring within him, peeling open the harmonics of Jazz's field and drawing back the layers, only to find...

Nothing.

Not a bit of genuine emotion.

Of all the assembled Consorts, Jazz is the only one of whom Optimus senses nothing. Even Prowl, with his wall of ice and stone, had tasted of that wall, that protective shell. Jazz, however, is a void.

It's quite disconcerting.

Beside him, Hot Rod whistles. "That went, uh, well," he says. He gives Optimus an askance look. "You weren't kidding. I really am the only one happy to be here."

Optimus manages a wobbly smile. "It is complicated. Many of them have circumstances I cannot divulge, but it does mean I understand their anger."

"You're a good mech, Optimus. I think that means you're gonna make a good Prime." Hot Rod stands and leans over, kissing Optimus on the cheek, gentle and chaste. "There. For good luck."

He pulls back, heat staining his cheeks, but pride blossoming in his optics. "And, uh, you know where my room is if you want more." He scrubs the back of his neck.

Optimus manages a thin smile, charmed. "Good night, Hot Rod."

"Night, Optimus." Hot Rod is beaming, and his spoiler is jittering in adorable little wiggles that's just enough to shake off the overwhelming sense of failure hanging over Optimus' head.

Perhaps trying to meet them on common ground all at the same time was a mistake. Optimus arguably lost control of the conversation before it even started.

One on one might be the better course here. With this many strong personalities, they will spend too much time arguing with each other instead of listening.

Which is, of course, what the Senate had hoped for.

"It could have gone better," Ultra Magnus says into the following silence.

Optimus sighs and rubs at his forehead, an ache building behind his temples. "I’m struggling to think of a way it could have gone worse."

"You only had one Consort storm out in a huff, and you already have Hot Rod in your corner. I believe that qualifies as a success, however small," Ultra Magnus says. He surveys the table and selects a few of the more savory treats, a small whuff escaping his vents. "What a waste. There are starving mechs in much poorer districts who would have killed for even a taste."

"Opulence and waste are two hallmarks of the Senate," Optimus says. He slumps in the chair, free of the need to hold himself together with no Consort to see him. For now, he can only allow Ultra Magnus to see Orion Pax. "It is one of many tasks I have inherited."

"Everything in time. The first step is to earn the loyalty of your Consorts."

Optimus rests his chin on his knuckles, optics dimming in thought. "I think I should make my first overtures toward Prowl. He seemed the most willing to consider reason.”

"I agree." Ultra Magnus selects another treat and hands it over to Optimus, urging with the motion alone, so Optimus takes it. "He is known to be pragmatic. Also, as an Enforcer, he should be able to read the truth in your field.”

“Truth is worth much to him,” Optimus muses aloud, pinching the treat between his fingers to test the consistency of it. “I think convincing him will also open roads to Ironhide and Ratchet.”

Ultra Magnus nods, but looks pointedly at the treat as if wanting to chastise Optimus for playing with his fuel before thinking better of it. “I am not as familiar with Ratchet, but Ironhide is a seasoned warrior. He will appreciate a blunt, and forward approach.”

Optimus obeys the unspoken censure and nibbles on the treat, the sharp bursts of magnesium a spicy surprise. "Prowl has also indicated an interest in discussing the parameters of our relationship. That will make it easier."

"Precisely." Ultra Magnus lingers over a cube of energon, swirling the contents with a thoughtful hum. "Though none of this will be easy. I must commend the Senate on their ability to choose a selection of Consorts collectively designed to despise one another."

"If I'm too busy managing the various personalities in my home, then I'll be too busy to pay any attention to what the Senate attempts to pass," Optimus grimaces. "They can't defy the will of the Prime or the weight of the office, not without provoking a full-scale rebellion, so they do what they can to minimize my power."

Ultra Magnus hums. "Were you anyone else, it would be clever of them." He eyes Optimus over the rim of his cube. "They underestimated Orion Pax."

Optimus touches his chassis and seam, the Matrix humming beneath his fingertips. "And they assumed Primus no longer cared." He looks at Ultra Magnus, offering a gentle smile. "They also ignored the power in loyalty and friendship." He touches the back of Ultra Magnus' hand. "I don't know if I'll ever be able to convey the scope of my gratitude, Magnus."

"You don't have to keep thanking me." Ultra Magnus smiles at him, softening the severe lines in his derma, which often leaves mechs to assume he is humorless and uncaring. It can’t be further from the truth. "It's too late to change my mind now."

Optimus blinks before he chuckles, realizing by the twitch of Ultra Magnus' mouth he meant it to be a joke. "That it is. You're stuck with me and this mess now." He peruses the array of treats once more. There's no sense in letting it go to waste.

Ultra Magnus joins him, taking liberally from the trays, as he says, "Then it's a good thing I've always excelled at tidying."

***


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am absolutely floored by the positive things everyone has said to me about this fic, and I'm delighted you all are enjoying it so much! Thank you to everyone who has commented so far! <3 <3 <3

Optimus' research indicates Prowl is something of an early riser, at least, judging by his propensity to arrive at work earlier than anyone else. It edges on the side of creepy to have this sort of intimate knowledge of a mech he’s only spoken with on two occasions, but Optimus needs the advantage if he has any hope of emerging victorious.  
  
He will not let the Senate have their way.  
  
Optimus arrives at Prowl's assigned quarters with a morning allotment of fuel and pings the door. He could technically invite himself within, but it would be an egregious invasion of privacy.  
  
Prowl opens the door, his face blank of expression, and the sensory panels for which Praxians are known arched high and rigid behind his shoulders. "Good morning, sir."  
  
"Good morning." Optimus offers the cube, and Prowl takes it automatically. "I thought you might like to join me in the study. I believe there was a conversation you wished to have?"  
  
"That would be acceptable." Prowl steps out and joins him, gesturing with the cube. "Thank you for the energon. That was thoughtful."  
  
Optimus leads the way, Prowl falling into step beside him. "It did not escape my notice that few were able to indulge in the refreshments provided. This is the least I can do."  
  
"I did notice some tension," Prowl says. "The ascension of a new Prime is not easy for anyone."  
  
"Especially for a Consort who had little choice in their nomination," Optimus agrees. He gestures Prowl ahead of him into the study, which is a private, intimate room and should suit their purposes.  
  
The large, wide windows make it feel far larger than it is, and the comfortable furniture will hopefully put Prowl at ease. It's also the closest thing the manor has to an office, which should make their conversation seem more official.  
  
"There is that," Prowl says. He surveys the room before selecting a chair suited to fit his sensory panels comfortably.  
  
Optimus sits across from him. "I am not unaware of the stressful circumstances. I wish to do my best to mitigate them." He rests his cube on the table beside him. "There are some things we cannot avoid, but there are things we can control in the meantime."  
  
"An apt way of putting it." Prowl takes a measured sip of his energon. "And what will you expect of me, sir?"  
  
"Actually, I am more interested in your answer to that question." Optimus threads his fingers together and rests his hands in his lap. "What are your wants and needs? What are your boundaries? How can I make this easier for you?"  
  
Prowl cocks his head, a slight motion, the barest hint of a frown curving his lips. "I was under the impression what I wanted no longer mattered."  
  
"Perhaps in the optics of those who nominated you, yes. I am not them, however, and I have very different hopes for what I can accomplish. With your aid, of course," Optimus says.  
  
Prowl's frown does not waver. "And what is it you want to accomplish, if I may be so bold?"  
  
"You may, and you may also call me Optimus. If we are to be bonded, I think doing away with titles is a matter of course." Optimus cycles a ventilation, ordering his thoughts in a manner Prowl would most respond to. "Cybertron is unfair, as I am sure you have noticed. The balance of power, the balance of wealth, the opportunities -- all of it is geared toward a select few. I wish to change that."  
  
Prowl's orbital ridges climb upward. "Lofty ambitions. Downright scandalous, if you were to ask anyone else." He touches his chin, forehead furrowed in thought. "There is a lot of corruption, Optimus. It extends into every level of Cybertron rulership.  
  
"And you were working very hard to root it out, were you not?"  
  
At last, Prowl's stoic facade relents, betraying his surprise. "I was," Prowl says, carefully. "Did you investigate me?"  
  
"I looked into all of my nominated Consorts. I wanted to have an idea of who I would be bonding,” Optimus answers. It doesn’t occur to him to lie as it is not something he intends to hide. They deserve to know. “I did not obtain any information that is not a matter of public record, however. Your arrest records, for example. There are also numerous articles on the intranet about your exploits.  
  
"Exploits," Prowl echoes, and there’s a wry curve to his voice. "Yes, the tabloids are fond of my ‘exploits’." He leans back, the clamp of his armor easing. "True, I had made it a personal mission to clean out the rot. It made me as unpopular as it did popular." His frown deepens. "And is probably the reason for my nomination."  
  
Optimus allows himself to relax, reaching for the energon he'd brought. "You got too close."  
  
Anger flashes in Prowl's optics. "That would seem to be the case," he says, his tone tight and careful. "And you think you can make a difference in the face of such corruption?"  
  
"I think I would try, which is better than what many of my predecessors can claim," Optimus says. "With your help, I would be more successful."  
  
"Perhaps." Prowl's optics dim in thought. "I was promoted under the assumption I would clean out the rot, and yet, when I went to the mech in question with my evidence, it was taken and vanished. He did not want to extricate the rot. He wanted me to find the evidence so it could remain." He looks up then, his jaw set, his optics meeting Optimus'. "How can I be sure you're not interested in the same?"  
  
Anger and distaste burn at the base of Optimus' spark. He's known that Cybertron is corrupted, but it still riles him to hear this proof.  
  
"Words will always be meaningless in the face of that," Optimus says, but he lets his field unfurl, allows Prowl to taste as much of it as he can and sense his sparkfelt sincerity. "I can only show my intentions through my actions, if you will but give me a chance. I want a partnership, Prowl, not a subordinate."  
  
Prowl shifts, ever so slightly, and wisps of his field offer glimpses of approval. "It would be rude of me to assume you'll disappoint me without giving you an opportunity to prove otherwise." He relaxes, his armor opening by another fraction, allowing a glimpse at the substructure beneath. "I will work with you, Optimus. If you're half as intent as I think you are, we'll do much good together."  
  
His instincts have proven right once more. Optimus doesn’t bother to conceal the smile, or the happiness in his field.  
  
"Thank you. I appreciate it." Optimus manages to keep his voice steady as he picks up his energon, appetite returned. "To that end, I wish to speak with all of my Consorts on an individual basis, much like this. I would welcome any insight you might have on the matter."  
  
Prowl's brow furrows. He hesitates, and Optimus realizes a fraction of a second later, how that might be interpreted.  
  
"I do not mean to manipulate," he clarifies, careful to choose his words not because he’s trying to avoid the truth, but because he doesn’t want to be misunderstood. "Honestly, you have likely spent more time with them than I have, so you might be more familiar with their personality quirks and what kind of approach they would prefer -- whether privately or publicly, for example."  
  
"Ah." Prowl nods slowly and lifts his own energon, one finger tracing the rim of the cup. "Frank honesty would be the best way to reach Ironhide. He has no patience for political games. Be direct. He'll appreciate that."  
  
Optimus nods and produces his datapad, making the notation. "I can be direct. I assume he is not one for formality either."  
  
"No. It'll only make him feel like he's being manipulated." Prowl drums his fingers on the arm of the chair. "For that matter, Ratchet is much the same. Be blunt and honest with him as well. Tell him outright what you want, and what you plan to offer. Political games are what got Ratchet here. He has no mood for them."  
  
Political games are one way of putting it, Optimus muses. Personal grudges are another. There were two highly skilled medics vying for the position of Chief Medical Officer, and somehow, one of them ended up being nominated as Consort to the Prime for Crystal City, leaving the other with a clear path to promotion.  
  
Curious that.  
  
"You'll have to be patient with him as well," Prowl continues. "He's known for his lack of tact, and he may test you with purposeful disrespect."  
  
Optimus manages a chuckle. "Oh, I can handle a little name-calling. I will consider it great practice for when I begin managing the Senate. Anyone else?"  
  
"Hmm. I don't know the others well, but I have heard rumors of Starscream. Don't dismiss his intelligence." Prowl's gaze turns sharp and knowing. "I suspect he's spent a majority of his life being underestimated. Be careful you don't make that mistake as well."  
  
"Noted."  
  
Prowl tilts his head, considering. “I sense nothing but support from Ultra Magnus, and given what I know of him, I’m certain that support is genuine. Though I’m not sure I understand why. This seems to be the last post a mech in his position would want.”  
  
“Ah.” Optimus does not hide his wince. “Last night’s discussion did not give me the opportunity to address our prior friendship. Ultra Magnus knew me as I was. He managed to get himself elected, though you will have to ask him the specifics of how he accomplished it.”  
  
“He knew Orion Pax?”  
  
Optimus inclines his head in a nod, finger tracing the rim of his half-consumed energon cube. “He did, and I will not speak for him or presume his intentions. But if you sense no hostility from him, that would be why.”  
  
“It explains a lot.” Fortunately, Prowl does not seem bothered by the information. If anything, he looks like he’s filed it away for later contemplation. “It must be a relief, then, to know you have at least two Consorts who don’t immediately despise you.”  
  
“Two?” Optimus asks.  
  
Prowl gives him a wry grin around a sip of energon. “Surely you’ve noticed Hot Rod’s enthusiasm. I think if you _don’t_ take that mech to berth, he’s going to drag you there regardless.”  
  
Optimus chuckles. "I think you may be right. His earnest desire is rather charming."  
  
"That's one word for it," Prowl says, but it's with a bit of a distracted air as his humor darkens. "I do think you should be cautious of Jazz." He pauses, lips forming a thin line before he continues, "I did background checks on everyone out of habit, and his was the only one so clean you could perform surgery on it. There's not so much as a traffic ticket."  
  
Optimus cycles a ventilation. "I had noticed that myself, and while I am not one to preemptively judge, I am also not aware that my ascension to the office of the Prime was not received well by many."  
  
"You think he might be an assassin?"  
  
"I am honestly unsure what to think. I suppose time will tell." Optimus finishes off his cube and tucks it away, to be returned to the refueling room at a later time. Yes, there are servants, but he is perfectly capable of cleaning up after himself. “I am a patient mech.”  
  
“Something that will work in your favor,” Prowl says. “I am interested to see where this goes.”  
  
“As am I.” Optimus stands and offers Prowl a tilt of his head. “I will leave you to enjoy the rest of your day. I am sure you wish to contemplate our discussion in peace.”  
  
Prowl’s lip curls at the corner. “That would be appreciated, yes.” He settles more firmly in the chair, giving the space an approving glance. “This room seems a good place for such things.”  
  
“You should not be disturbed here at least,” Optimus says. “Thank you, Prowl. I appreciate your time.”  
  
He turns to go, but Prowl’s voice snags him before he can palm open the door.  
  
“You aren’t the only one who did some investigating, Optimus,” he says, as Optimus half-turns to glance over his shoulder, Prowl’s chin lifted with pride. “For what it’s worth, I am beginning to believe the Matrix chose well in Orion Pax.”  
  
Optimus offers a smile of his own. “I can only hope that to be true.” The door activates, but Optimus hovers in the aperture. “Thank you, Prowl. I will see you at the evening gathering.”  
  
“Until then.”  
  
Optimus lets himself ventilate a little easier only when he’s down the hall, and far out of range of Prowl’s no doubt extensive emotional sensors. Those Praxian panels are a marvel, and Optimus is certain Prowl’s are among the best. They would have been an asset during his time as an Enforcer.  
  
Three down, seven more to go.  
  
He rounds the corner, only to come to a halt as he nearly runs into Sunstreaker, the golden mech standing in the middle of the corridor with an intent look on his face. It’s hard to tell what he’s been up to, since his hands are empty. Exploring perhaps.  
  
“Prime,” he greets with a lifted chin. “I thought a Prime would take better care of his chassis.” His gaze flicks over Optimus, and his mouth wrestles with a frown that a thin film of respect for the office of the Prime barely restrains. “You need a detailing.”  
  
Optimus’ mouth opens and closes. He glances down at himself, and yes, there are quite a few scratches in his paint. He has not been detailed since his ascension, and while he had a brief polishing session before their very public, verbal vows, he knows he does not match the standards of the elite. For Orion Pax, his current condition would have been considered extravagant.  
  
“Perhaps I do,” Optimus says. “I admit I have not had as much free time as I would like to take care of such things, even before I received the Matrix.”  
  
Sunstreaker makes a non-committal noise and folds his arms, his own paint gleaming and perfect, without a single smudge to be seen. “It’s one of my specialties,” he says. “If you’re interested.”  
  
“You are offering?” Optimus asks, just to be clear. He reaches out, but he doesn’t even need the Matrix to feel the discord in Sunstreaker’s field. He’s pushing himself to speak to Optimus, but the depths of his field screams of his disinterest in actually doing it.  
  
“Yeah.” Sunstreaker lifts his chin, audibly cycling a ventilation. “It would give me something to do at least. I have standards.” The corner of his mouth quirks in a smile that’s as much pride as it is humor.  
  
Well.  
  
It’s as good an opportunity as any, and it’s a benefit Sunstreaker sought him out first.  
  
“I would be honored to put myself in your care,” Optimus says  
  
Sunstreaker looks at him for a moment that drags toward awkward before he nods and turns. “I have everything in my suite.”  
  
“Lead the way.”  
  
They fall into step, Optimus with his hands clasped behind his back and shortening his stride to match Sunstreaker, who only comes up to his shoulder. As Orion Pax, they’d have met optic to optic. Optimus still is not used to how easily he looms without trying.  
  
“Did you train to be a detail specialist?” Optimus asks.  
  
“No. I taught myself.”  
  
“Any particular reason for the interest?”  
  
Sunstreaker slants him a narrow look. “Should there be?”  
  
Optimus shakes his head. “No. I am merely curious. I would like to get to know those with whom I am going to be sharing my future.”  
  
“What does my personality matter?” Sunstreaker asks, and there’s an edge of a scowl peeking up before he smooths it out. “I’m just here to be a trophy.”  
  
Optimus winces. “Perhaps that is the Senate’s intention, or whomsoever nominated you, but that is not what I would like for you.”  
  
Sunstreaker snorts. “Sure.” He palms open his door and gestures for Optimus to precede him. “Primes go first.”  
  
“We are to be bonded. I do not think we need to stand on ceremony,” Optimus says, but he does enter ahead of Sunstreaker because it’s only polite. “For that matter, you should call me Optimus rather than my title.”  
  
“Sure, Prime. Whatever you want.” Sunstreaker points to a chair near the large window, shades withdrawn so the exterior lighting pours into the room. “Sit over there. I’ll get my kit.”  
  
Optimus obeys, lowering into an adjustable seat while Sunstreaker gathers supplies and drags them closer. Optimus is skilled with the basic necessities, but he can’t identify half of the items in Sunstreaker’s arms. If Sunstreaker’s appearance is anything to go by, Optimus will be unrecognizable by the time he walks out of this suite.  
  
“Would talking interrupt your concentration?” Optimus asks.  
  
“No. I can do most of this in my recharge by now,” Sunstreaker says. “Just stay still, trust me, and don’t mind the smell. This stripper reeks, but it’s the best on the market.”  
  
Optimus deactivates his nasal receptors. “Of course. I appreciate you taking the time to do this for me. I admit, I am lacking when it comes to such skills. I had little use for them before I ascended.”  
  
“Well, if most mechs had those skills, I’d have been out of a job. Mechs came to me because they wanted it done right.” Sunstreaker moves behind Optimus, and his dermal sensors tingle as he sprays what Optimus assumes is the stripper. “Whoever shined you for the ceremony did a slag job at it. You should fire them.”  
  
“Perhaps you can help me hire a replacement?”  
  
“Frag that. I’ll just do it myself. Gotta be useful somehow,” Sunstreaker says with a snort. His field, as odd as the harmonics of it are, reek of bitter disgust.  
  
Optimus is careful to keep himself still. “You need not be useful if you do not wish to be. But if there is something you would like to do, I want to encourage that.”  
  
“Don’t think that’s what the Senate has in mind.”  
  
“The Senate and I are going to disagree often in the future, I am sure,” Optimus says. He stares out the window, which overlooks the rather vast grounds behind the mansion where the glitter of the crystal gardens naturally draws an eager optic. “I am aware that acceptance of the nomination is mandatory. Given another choice, you would have likely refused it, correct?”  
  
Sunstreaker goes silent for a moment, his field buzzing against Optimus’. “I’m not supposed to answer that question honestly,” he says at length. “I’m supposed to tell you how happy I am to be here.”  
  
“I would like the truth, Sunstreaker.”  
  
“Is that an order?”  
  
Optimus braces himself, knowing he must tread lightly. “If you need it to be in order to satisfy a restriction, then yes. If you do not want to answer honestly, then no, it is not.”  
  
“Then no, this wouldn’t have been my choice.” Sunstreaker vents in a sharp huff. “But that’s what happens when you don’t have the luxury of choice. When you don’t even own yourself. My brother--”  
  
He silences himself, engine rumbling unhappily.  
  
Optimus glances over his shoulder, but Sunstreaker is out of view, even of his periphery. “Sideswipe,” he says quietly. “I did my due diligence, Sunstreaker. I know of your brother and your time in the pits. You do not have to keep either from me.”  
  
Sunstreaker’s field spikes with fury before it vanishes as if sucked into a void. “You don’t know anything about me,” he says, tone tight and leashed. “All you know are facts, and they mean nothing compared to my reality. So you can take your assumptions and stuff them.”  
  
Optimus cycles a careful ventilation. “Forgive me. I do not mean to assume anything.” Despite his anger, Sunstreaker’s hands do not waver from their confident, rhythmic actions as he takes Optimus’ left arm in hand and continues to peel away the old paint. “You could enlighten me, if you like.”  
  
Sunstreaker grimaces. “No, I wouldn’t like,” he says. “Bad enough I gotta be here, but you want me to tell you all my secrets, too? Frag that.” He chuffs a vent. “I gotta give up everything else. I’m going to keep this.”  
  
His accent, Optimus notices, slips with his growing emotional disquiet, the carefully practiced words sliding into the looser speech of the common mech.  
  
“You do not have to give me anything, Sunstreaker,” Optimus says, only to amend, “Except, of course, for that which is required of both of us in our particular situation.”  
  
“Yeah. My spark.” Sunstreaker’s grimace deepens, his grip briefly tightening before it loosens. He moves around to Optimus’ other arm, leaving bare silver in his wake. “So glad I have no choice but to share it with you.”  
  
“I apologize for that.”  
  
Sunstreaker glances at him, a bit of the anger softening. “Well, you don’t have any choice but to give me yours, too. So I guess I can’t blame you too much.” His orbital ridges draw down. “Though how much I blame you depends on how much of an aft you’re gonna be. Primes don’t have good reputations where I’m from.”  
  
No, Optimus supposes they wouldn’t. Sunstreaker is the Nominate from Tarn and historically speaking, the residents of Tarn have not been treated favorably by the Senate or the Primes. The population is composed of the average mech, workers paid far too little and given even less, their rights stripped to the minimum, as they struggle to eke out a living.  
  
This is actually the first occasion where Tarn has been given a Nominate. Optimus suspects it is due in part to the Senate wishing to quiet the rising tension in Tarn, to give them the illusion of having a voice. That it doubles as adding more friction to Optimus’ cohort, well, they must consider that a bonus.  
  
“My predecessors have left quite a mess in their wake,” Optimus says. “I know it is going to take a lot of effort on my part to change that. I feel I am up to the challenge, but I am also aware that it will not be a quick process.”  
  
“Yeah, well, put in the effort and people will notice.” Sunstreaker moves in front of him and gestures for Optimus to rise. “Legs next.”  
  
Optimus obeys, locking his knees to prevent himself from absently shifting. “Is there anything I can do more immediately?”  
  
Sunstreaker is quiet for a moment as he kneels before Optimus and starts on his right leg. “What do you know about Sideswipe?”  
  
“Very little. Only that he is your brother.”  
  
“Twin,” Sunstreaker corrects, in a voice so quiet Optimus nearly misses it. “He’s my twin. Split-spark.”  
  
Optimus’ optics widen. How it must ache for them to be separated. It is a unique kind of torture to keep twins apart, especially split-spark ones. Why had Sunstreaker been nominated in the first place? Certainly it won’t kill him. It’s a pain and a discomfort, but a survivable one. Optimus has never heard of a pair of twins willingly keeping themselves apart.  
  
Ah.  
  
 _Willingly._  
  
Still. What punishment is this to force them to near-opposite sides of the planet?  
  
“Is he in danger?” Optimus asks.  
  
Sunstreaker pauses and looks up at him, optics dark and haunted, but the fire of rebellion buried behind them. “Not if I do what I’m supposed to do.”  
  
Foreboding sends a shiver up Optimus’ spinal strut. “I promise,” he says. “If it is within my power, I will do whatever it takes to bring Sideswipe to you.”  
  
Sunstreaker moves to his left leg. “If you can do that, you’ll have my loyalty,” he says. “I mean, there’s a fat chance of it happening, but who am I to tell you what you can and can’t do?” He shrugs, fingers quick and deft as Optimus is stripped to his protoform silver.  
  
“It is not loyalty I am after, though I would not refuse it either. I simply want to make the best of an unfavorable situation.”  
  
“That can mean different things to different mechs,” Sunstreaker says.  
  
“Yes, I am aware. It is why I am asking each of you individually what your best outcome would be,” Optimus replies.  
  
Sunstreaker shrugs again and stands, gesturing for Optimus to sit down and lean back. “I want my brother, and I want him safe and sound. Everything else is secondary.”  
  
“I would also like for you to be happy, as much as can be reasonably expected in the circumstances,” Optimus says. He stares over Sunstreaker’s shoulder rather than directly at the mech’s more than handsome face. “And perhaps we could be friends, if you were interested.”  
  
Sunstreaker leans back, arching one orbital ridge. “A friend with benefits?”  
  
“Only if it was something appealing to you,” Optimus clarifies with a slight smile. “You are quite beautiful.”  
  
“Yeah. That was the point.” Something flutters across Sunstreaker’s face, too quick for Optimus to read, and he leans back into Optimus’ space, stripper in hand. “We’ll see. Now be still. This’ll go quicker if you stop distracting me.”  
  
“As you wish,” Optimus says.  
  
Sunstreaker has given him much to think about as it is, so he stores any further questions, and lets Sunstreaker work. The mech is both talented and efficient, laying Optimus’ bare to the protoform before he gestures for Optimus to rise so that he can begin the first of what he claims will be several layers.  
  
Sunstreaker seems to relax further in the companionable silence, his field less a thing of razor-wire and more a glancing stroke of focus. Bit by bit, Optimus’ armor flourishes under his care, going from protoform-bare, to lustrous shades of silver, crimson, and navy. It’s a design that’s not Orion Pax, and not Optimus Prime recently of the Matrix, but something that combines the two, and Optimus can hardly believe what he sees in the mirror.  
  
He’s a new mech, a mech who looks as though he better fits into his own armor. He stands tall and confident, more like a Prime than the terrified librarian hiding in the derma of one.  
  
"You have performed a miracle," Optimus says as he turns in the mirror, admiring the gloss of his shine from every angle.  
  
Sunstreaker snorts. "No, a miracle is what I'm going to need to fix Hot Rod's garish mess." He eyes Optimus appreciatively. "But I did do a good job."  
  
"That you did," Optimus says. He turns and gives Sunstreaker a warm smile. "Thank you. You have given me a great gift."  
  
"I did it so I wouldn't have to look at your flaws, not any selfless reason," Sunstreaker says, but he ducks his head, and a hint of heat stains his cheeks. "Anyway, Hot Rod is gonna be here soon, and I gotta get set up for him. So..."  
  
"I will be on my way then." Optimus takes one last glance to the mirror - he nearly doesn't recognize himself -- before he heads for the door. "I will see you at the gathering tonight, yes?"  
  
Sunstreaker flaps a hand at him, distracted at best. "Yeah, I'll be there."  
  
"I am glad to hear it. Thank you, Sunstreaker."  
  
Another distracted wave sees Optimus out the door.  
  


~

  
  
That evening, Optimus makes the conscious effort to be first to the dining hall. It gives him more than enough time to discreetly observe his Consorts as they trickle in to join him.  
  
Prowl arrives first, distractedly choosing a seat with his back to a solid wall while his attention is buried in a datapad. It takes him a moment, one marked with a brief flicker of embarrassment, to notice Optimus, and when he does, he audibly resets his vocalizer.  
  
"My apologies, Optimus," he says. "I thought I'd be the first to arrive."  
  
"I thought I would make up for my prior tardiness by greeting everyone as they arrived today," Optimus says.  
  
The corner of Prowl's mouth quirks in a grin. "You know, it's not unlike an old interrogation tactic, to observe the subject's behavior when they're surprised."  
  
"Is it?" Optimus asks, feigning innocence. He can sense nothing of offense in Prowl's field. If anything, he seems impressed.  
  
Prowl actually chuckles. "Clearly, you wouldn't know that though." He raps his fingers on his datapad, head tilted. "I don't think the Senate has any idea what they're in for."  
  
"I shall take that as a compliment," Optimus says as Ironhide and Ratchet stroll into the room, their voices preceding them, clearly engaged in a round of friendly ribbing.  
  
"I'm two whole decades older than you, that hardly makes me ancient," Ratchet retorts as they come into view.  
  
"Two decades wiser," Ironhide says with the sad, sarcastic sigh. "Two decades closer to the rust pile. No wonder ya practically creak."  
  
"The only one creaking here is you! When was the last time you had those slag-poor joints of yours oiled?" Ratchet demands.  
  
Ironhide actually leers at Ratchet. "I get my joints oiled plenty, I’ll have you know."  
  
"You're disgusting."  
  
Prowl coughs into his fist.  
  
The two mechs draw up short and first, glare at Prowl, only to realize they have an audience. Ratchet immediately scowls and yanks out a chair, dropping into it as if the chair itself has offended him. Ironhide doesn't look the least bit ashamed as he puts himself between Ratchet and Prowl, albeit with a lighter touch.  
  
"Good evening Ratchet and Ironhide," Optimus greets, careful to smooth his grin before it emerges on his lips. He's not yet earned the right to tease them. "How have the accommodations been treating you?"  
  
"They're acceptable," Ratchet grunts.  
  
"Gotta be honest, I'm not used to so much frippery, Prime," Ironhide says as he leans back in his chair and slouches. "I mean, it's nice, it's just not my speed."  
  
"Because it's not an energon-soaked trench?" Ratchet goads.  
  
Ironhide's optics narrow. He scratches his orbital ridge, above the left, where a prominent scar gives evidence to a life on the battlefield. "It's no cot in the storage room of the medcenter. Those aren't hardly big enough for two, are they?"  
  
Ratchet bristles.  
  
Optimus shifts enough in his chair that it makes a loud creaking sound. "I had not realized you two were previously acquainted," he says, though he supposes he should have known, Ratchet having spent a good portion of his career as a field medic, and Ironhide a soldier on said battlefields.  
  
"We're not," says Ironhide.  
  
"Passing acquaintances," says Ratchet.  
  
They glare at each other.  
  
Hmm. Optimus doesn’t quite believe them, and judging by Prowl’s amused look, he doesn’t either. There’s a history between the two. Former lovers perhaps? Rivals? Or is it simply one of those friendships that thrive on antagonizing one another?  
  
"I see," Optimus says.  
  
Thankfully, he is saved by Ultra Magnus' arrival, with Soundwave not far behind. The latter offers a curt nod while the former takes a seat beside Optimus with a question brewing in his field, and curiosity pulsing in the thin connection of their spark bond.  
  
"We'll review later," Optimus tells him on a narrow-band transmission, and Ultra Magnus pings an affirmative receipt.  
  
"Thank you for joining us, Soundwave, Ultra Magnus," Optimus says. "How has your stay here been thus far?"  
  
"Adequate," Soundwave says. He sits rigid, as though he does not know any other way to behave, and the tight clamp of his armor makes Optimus’ own cables ache.  
  
Optimus waits, but Soundwave doesn't elaborate further.  
  
"I am disappointed by the lack of connection to the intranet, but otherwise, the grounds are a satisfactory location for rest and relaxation," Ultra Magnus says. "Not that I'm usually inclined to either."  
  
"There's no intranet because they don't want us knowing what rumors are being spread," Ironhide says as he rests his head on his fist. "Or contacting anyone for that matter. This is supposed to be our private time." He drawls the latter, his tone dripping with sarcasm.  
  
"Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage," Ratchet says with an approving glance Ironhide's way. "It's a really nice prison you got here, Prime."  
  
Optimus swallows a wince, because he knows Ratchet is right. They have little choice in the matter. They cannot leave. Their access to the outside world is restricted. They may not wear manacles or be surrounded by locked doors, but they are imprisoned all the same.  
  
"I understand the circumstances are unpleasant, but if there is anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable, please do not hesitate to ask," Optimus says as diplomatically as he can manage.  
  
Ratchet arches an orbital ridge. “It’s not about the accommodations, and you know it, Prime.”  
  
“I am aware,” Optimus demurs as laughter precedes Hot Rod’s entrance, with Sunstreaker a few steps behind.  
  
-”--going to recognize me!” Hot Rod sweeps into view, performing a little twirl of delight.  
  
“That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” Sunstreaker drawls, amusement thick in his tone, though the mask of disinterest falls over his face as soon as he steps into the room.  
  
“I didn’t look _that_ bad,” Hot Rod protests as he circles the table, beelining for the empty seat on Optimus’ left.  
  
Sunstreaker scoffs, rolling his optics. “If you’ve ever found a berthmate with that paint job, they must have been blind.”  
  
“Hey!”  
  
Optimus chuckles, only because Hot Rod’s affront seems feigned, as if he and Sunstreaker had been engaging in such witty repartee throughout the entirety of their interaction. Hot Rod’s field bubbles with delight as he bounces up to Optimus and makes no attempt to conceal the fact he’s eying Optimus like a delicious meal.  
  
"Wow. Optimus, you look even better than I do," Hot Rod says with appreciation in his optics. He looks Optimus up and down, grinning. "Sunstreaker does really good work, huh?"  
  
"I was lucky enough to receive his care, yes," Optimus says, and politely scans Hot Rod in return. "You look very nice as well."  
  
Hot Rod beams. "I mean, I looked pretty damn good before, but now I'm gorgeous." He does a little spin in place, his polished spoiler catching the overhead lights. "He even let me keep my flames!"  
  
"Under protest," Sunstreaker sighs.  
  
"I think they are charming," Optimus says with a little pat to Hot Rod's shoulder. "They suit you."  
  
Hot Rod's armor flutters, his field flaring with pride and delight. If Optimus were a lesser mech, it would be too easy to sweep Hot Rod into his arms, and ply the adorable mech with kisses. The urge to spoil Hot Rod rises up in him, until propriety forces the urge back down.  
  
All in due time. There are politics to consider first.  
  
"Yes, yes, he's very pretty," says Ratchet, though at least there is no venom in his voice, consistent with the appreciation in his gaze as he looks Hot Rod up and down. "You do very good work, Sunstreaker. I think you could work miracles even with the rustbucket here." He points a thumb toward Ironhide.  
  
Sunstreaker drops into a chair and raises his orbital ridges. "I think you might overestimate my talent.”  
  
Ironhide's engine grumbles. "Come on now. Why are ya siding with the medic? What’d he ever do for you?"  
  
There is a familiarity between Ratchet and Sunstreaker which speaks to prior knowledge of one another, though Optimus' research has not indicated a connection before. Perhaps it is a question worth pursuing. Every bond, no matter how small, is invaluable.  
  
"You make for an easy target," Prowl says as he skims through a datapad without so much as raising his gaze.  
  
"How's that?" Ironhide demands, visibly affronted.  
  
"Because ya react." Jazz strolls into the room, smiling and radiating cheer. Optimus can't trust it. Jazz's easygoing stride and casual delight rings too false next to Hot Rod's honest enthusiasm.  
  
It pings Optimus' radar, not that he can put into words why. Perhaps it's something that bothers the Matrix. The void that is Jazz’s field continues to unsettle him.  
  
"You're fun to rile," Jazz adds as he swings into an empty seat between Ultra Magnus and Soundwave, sprawling with all the poise of a performer.  
  
Prowl arches an orbital ridge. "Are you equating us to sparkling inanity?"  
  
Jazz's visor sparkles. "If the gear fits..." He flashes his visor in a wink.  
  
Servants begin to arrive in that moment, laden with trays and cubes and decanters, loading the table with all manner of treats and energon to delight a variety of preferences and tastes. Jazz had arrived with less than a minute to spare, but with a quick head count, Optimus realizes they are still shy one Consort -- Starscream.  
  
He glances at Ultra Magnus, who no doubt has done his own count, but Ultra Magnus gives a minute shake of his head -- he doesn't know where Starscream is either. It's impossible for the Seeker to have left the grounds without anyone noticing. Security is far too tight for that. Seeker or not, there are optics watching the airspace.  
  
Starscream must still be in his quarters, choosing to skip the community refueling. It's implied to be mandatory, not that Optimus is going to enforce such a thing. If his Consorts wish to keep that element of control in their life, Optimus can hardly blame them, and he won't pusht.  
  
He'll simply have to seek Starscream out on his own, and hope time will encourage Starscream to befriend the other Consorts. Perhaps having Skyfire here in the future will help, though Optimus knows their relationship is fraught with history.  
  
The servants bow and excuse themselves, leaving everyone to enjoy the meal, but no one reaches for the energon. Every pair of optics turn toward Optimus instead, as if waiting.  
  
"Please, do not restrain yourselves on my account," Optimus gestures to the spread. "Eat as you will. You do not have to wait for permission."  
  
"What?" Ratchet asks with a snort. "No big speech this time?"  
  
Optimus shakes his head. "No, though I am happy to answer any questions you might have for me. I think you might prefer that."  
  
"Questions," Jazz echoes as if he's tasting the word before he pops one of the chewy gummies into his mouth. "Seems weird ta just be askin' the Prime questions, innit?"  
  
"Not Prime only," Soundwave says, his distinct monotone carrying over the sounds of dishes clattering and lids being lifted. "Betrothed also."  
  
Jazz’s glossa flicks over his lips as though catching a stray dribble of the sweet energon filling. "Very true, Sounders. But still not equals, am I right?"  
  
"No equals," Soundwave agrees in a solemn tone.  
  
"Perhaps not in the views of the Senate," Optimus concedes. "It is one of many things I intend to change. I do not wish for anyone to be subservient to me, least of all my own partners."  
  
"Hm." Prowl tips his head as he turns a glass of engex in his fingers. "It's a contradiction, to be a Prime yet not wish anyone to be subservient. You hold the highest position in all of Cybertron."  
  
"A position that only has as much power as the Senate allows," Ultra Magnus says, giving Prowl a keen look. "I think it's unfair to say that the position of Prime is omnipotent."  
  
Sunstreaker flicks off a piece of raw magnesium from a rust-dusted cake. "I think you're arguing over semantics. When you're at the bottom, no one really cares who's the one in actual power. The heel feels the same."  
  
"Huh. A gladiator with a processor. Who would have known?"  
  
Optimus looks up as Starscream struts into the room, making no attempts to conceal his tardiness. If anything he looks proud of it, wings arched high, lips curled into a big smile. He makes a production of his arrival, sweeping in to sit between Soundwave and Ratchet, leaning across the table to grab a treat from the tray nearest Hot Rod, though there is one much closer to him.  
  
"I thought your type had nothing going for you but brawn and murder," Starscream adds airily, the very picture of nonchalance though his optics glitter with thinly disguised mischief.  
  
Sunstreaker's optics narrow. "Give me a chance, I'll be happy to show you." He bares his denta in what might be considered a grin if Optimus is feeling generous. It looks like a threat.  
  
Starscream chuckles and pops the treat into his mouth, his gaze switching to Optimus, challenging, as if demanding to be reprimanded. "The orrery in the conservatory is broken, Prime. What kind of palatial estate is this?"  
  
"I was unaware of the disrepair," Optimus says, and hides a smile when Starscream blinks at him, as if surprised Optimus isn't heading straight for a reprimand. "I will call someone to come fix it at once."  
  
Starscream flicks a hand at him. "Don't bother. I can do it myself."  
  
"Don't those things take very precise calculations?" Prowl asks.  
  
Starscream grabs another treat, flicking it with his glossa before sliding the whole thing into his mouth. "Yep."  
  
"Thank you, Starscream," Optimus says. "I will leave that in your capable hands. If you need any equipment, let me know, and I will acquire it for you."  
  
"I gotta question," Ironhide says as Starscream gives Optimus a surprised look, but says nothing. "Did any battle skills come with that big frame upgrade of yours?"  
  
Optimus cycles his optics. "Battle skills?" he echoes as his attention diverts to Ironhide. "Orion Pax was a librarian, Ironhide. What little he knew of battle came from textbooks."  
  
Ironhide stares at his chest. "That magic artifact inside you didn't come equipped with a strategy guide and military skills?"  
  
Jazz snorts a laugh.  
  
"Not to my knowledge," Optimus replies. Though it would have been quite handy. All of the knowledge and wisdom of the millennia and the past Primes is lodged within his chassis, and as far as he can tell, there’s no way to directly access it.  
  
Such a shame.  
  
"Any halfway decent Prime should be able to defend himself," Ironhide says around a mouthful of very potent engex. He looks Optimus up and down, critically assessing. "You're not that unusual a design. I could teach ya how to use it."  
  
Jazz snorts a laugh. "Ya tryin' to proposition him, Ironhide?"  
  
"Shuddup. Wasn't talking to you," Ironhide says without so much as a sideways glance at Jazz. If anything, he holds Optimus' gaze steadily, as if taking the measure of him. "Well?"  
  
"There is an open space on the grounds we could use for training," Optimus says. "I would be honored to receive instruction from someone with your experience."  
  
"Good." Ironhide tips his head back, chugging down the rest of his engex before setting the empty on the table. "That goes for the rest of you, too. We all got targets on our back now, and ain't but a few of you I'd wager could handle yourselves."  
  
"And even those of us who can, there is no harm in learning something new," Prowl agrees.  
  
"Targets?" Hot Rod echoes. Some of his visible enthusiasm dampens, and the look he gives Optimus betrays his worry.  
  
Optimus hates to see even a glimpse of darkness in Hot Rod’s optics. There should be a law against causing harm to such a bright individual.  
  
"You're Consort to the Prime, kid," says Ratchet with a rattling ex-vent. "There are a lot of mechs who can think of a lot of bad things to do to someone like that."  
  
Optimus rests a hand on Hot Rod's shoulder, leaning into the younger mech’s space to offer reassurance in his field. "While Ratchet is not wrong, do not worry, Hot Rod. You will be safe here, and in Iacon. I will do my best to ensure that."  
  
Hot Rod gives him a wan smile. "Not that I don't trust you, Optimus, but maybe it wouldn't hurt to have a few lessons. You know. Just in case."  
  
"A wise decision," Ultra Magnus says. "I would recommend everyone take Ironhide up on his offer for some self-defense lessons."  
  
"First thing tomorrow," Ironhide says. "Best way to start the day."  
  
"I can think of far better ways to begin my morning," Starscream drawls as he tugs a tray of treats closer, clearly laying claim to it.  
  
"I've got a question." Ratchet leans back in his chair and casts a quick glance around the room. "Now, I'm a medic not a mathematician, but aren't there supposed to be ten of us?"  
  
Prowl sits up a little straighter, his datapad flashing into his hands as though he can’t bear to be parted from it. "You are correct, Ratchet. There should be ten, but I am a mathematician, and I count only nine."  
  
"Skyfire had to be retrieved from an off-planet expedition. He should be here within a few days," Optimus explains.  
  
"Ten is an unusually high number of Consorts, isn't it?" Starscream asks, his tone dripping with nonchalance, but his armor slicking tighter to his frame.  
  
Optimus is not unaware of the fraught history between Skyfire and Starscream. He largely suspects it is the reason one of them was chosen. He hopes to have an opportunity to speak with Starscream before Skyfire's arrival. The quicker he can temper possible friction, the better.  
  
"The highest in recorded history," Ultra Magnus answers. He pulls out a datapad and starts to flick through it, he and Prowl moving in an eerie tandem. "Nominus was Prime for several centuries, and Sentinel even longer before him. Cybertron has changed much during that time. We've expanded, and power has shifted."  
  
Prowl lifts his glass of engex, contemplating the swirl of colors within. "What Ultra Magnus means is that there are more mechs fighting for political sway, and to appease them, more Consorts were nominated and approved."  
  
"Political pawns," Soundwave states.  
  
"Yep." Ratchet pops the word and looks further disgruntled, a cloud forming over his head. "Isn't it grand?"  
  
Optimus cycles a careful ventilation. "I am not unaware of the machinations this tradition has invited, but I do hope to change their intent. I do not want pawns. I would like friends and allies."  
  
"And berthmates," Jazz chirps.  
  
"I am not a mech ruled by my interfacing system," Optimus corrects, schooling his expression so as not to frown. Jazz’s jibe sounds playful, but there are harmonics layered in the comment which suggest he’s trying to provoke. "I have no interest in having someone in my berth who is unwilling or coerced.”  
  
Hot Rod grins, and Optimus has all of a moment to dread what the mech is going to say before he leans in and bumps Optimus' shoulder. "But it's different if they're eager and willing, right?" He waggles his orbital ridges.  
  
"Primus," Ironhide groans. "Easy to see who's going to be the favorite, isn't it? I mean, not that I blame ya, Prime. He's pretty."  
  
"Hey," Hot Rod starts to rise, indignant, but Prowl's voice cuts him off.  
  
"If anyone is to be the favorite, it will be Ultra Magnus," Prowl says, one orbital ridge arched as he meets their gaze steadily. "He and Optimus are previously acquainted."  
  
"Wait." Sunstreaker sits up now, optics narrowing. "What do you mean, Prowl?"  
  
Optimus cycles a ventilation as multiple gazes turn on him, and not all are mere curiosity. "Ultra Magnus and Orion Pax were friends," he says before Prowl can answer for them, though he’s sure bringing this truth into the light is Prowl’s intention. "I apologize. I meant to address this sooner, but Prowl is correct. That does not mean I intend to play favorites.”  
  
"Are," Jazz says with a little curl of his mouth, a grin that's not a grin. "Are friends. Orion Pax isn't gone, no matter how much they tell you he is." He points at Optimus' chassis. "That mech is right there, with a Matrix wrapped around him."  
  
"I would like to know how that happened," Ratchet says. "You talk a nice game about not playing politics, but somehow you managed to get your pal into your cohort?"  
  
Optimus opens his mouth to answer, but a spike of barely contained anger startles him, rising first from the thin corona around his spark before it registers from beside him. Ultra Magnus’ engine rumbles quietly, and he speaks up.  
  
"Optimus had nothing to do with my appointment," Ultra Magnus says. "I was the one who contacted the relevant parties and ensured I would be nominated. Optimus had no idea until he received the final list of his approved Consorts."  
  
"You volunteered?" Sunstreaker asked, his voice thick with shock.  
  
Ultra Magnus nods. "I did."  
  
"Why?" Prowl asks.  
  
Optimus busies himself with selecting some of the treats and piling them onto a plate. This is Ultra Magnus’ truth to share. He doesn't want to give any appearance of having coached or manipulated his friend.  
  
Ultra Magnus vents a quiet sigh. "Because not only do I feel I can effect more change in this position, I also know Orion Pax, and I knew if we -- if _Cybertron_ \-- has any hope of the new Prime keeping Orion's gentle spark, he'd need support he could trust, before the Senate and the power corrupted him."  
  
This is the first time Optimus has heard of corruption. He speaks before he can temper himself, Orion Pax surging forward as he slants a look at Ultra Magnus. "You worried I would be corrupted?"  
  
"History suggests it is inevitable for all those who take the office of the Prime," Prowl says.  
  
"Absolute power corrupts absolutely, and all that," Ratchet says. "And rumor has it, the Matrix has a sentience into itself. Maybe Magnus has a point."  
  
Ultra Magnus gives him a long, apologetic look. "Orion was a good mech. Is a good mech. It's not Orion I didn't trust, but what something as powerful as the Matrix could do to him.”  
  
“And so, what, you decided to protect him? Out of the goodness of your spark?” Starscream asks, his vocals layered with disbelief, but something else in them. Something almost like envy.  
  
“I am pragmatic enough to recognize that my motivations are two-fold,” Ultra Magnus replies without missing a beat. “In this role, I can not only look after a dear friend, but I can accomplish my own goals of working toward the betterment of Cybertron.”  
  
“How altruistic of you,” says Prowl.  
  
Beneath the table, Optimus rests his hand on Ultra Magnus’ knee with a light tap as he gives Magnus a look from his periphery. They will discuss this later.  
  
Magnus, for his part, doesn’t seem the least bit apologetic.  
  
“Perhaps it is also selfish,” says Ultra Magnus. “However, if this is an issue with any of you, I ask that you approach me about it, and not think ill of Optimus. He had no idea of my machinations.”  
  
Who could it have been, Optimus wonders. Who had Ultra Magnus conspired with to place him here, at Optimus’ side? Who would have cared? He knows Senator Shockwave had been one of those Ultra Magnus had approached, but Shockwave on his own would not have been convincing enough.  
  
“It doesn’t matter what you do and don’t know, Prime,” Starscream says, his lip curled as his wings arch high. “The truth is that you already like Ultra Magnus. The rest of us are just the nuisances the Senate put in your way.”  
  
Ratchet scoffs. “Speak for yourself, Seeker. I was a highly respected medic.”  
  
“Is was the operative term here?” Starscream asks. “Because it seems highly unusual to me that someone so skilled and respected should be reduced to berthmate.”  
  
Anger flushes Ratchet’s field, his jaw visibly tightening.  
  
“Come on, this is supposed to be a good thing, isn’t it?” Hot Rod asks. “Being the Prime’s Consort and all, I mean.”  
  
“Ahh, youth,” says Prowl with a shake of his head.  
  
“Colony mech,” Soundwave tilts his head toward Hot Rod. “Knows nothing better.”  
  
“True,” Prowl concedes.  
  
Hot Rod scowls and crosses his arms. “Just what the frag is that supposed to mean?”  
  
“There may have been a time the Prime Consort was as near respected as the office of the Prime itself, but it has not been so in recent history,” Optimus says quietly. “There are layers upon layers of politics, and none so thick as those involving the nominations of the Consorts. They are not my stories to tell, but it might behoove you to speak to the others, and learn why they are here.”  
  
Some of Hot Rod’s outrage deflates. “Not all volunteers, I guess.”  
  
“Not by the true definition of the word,” Optimus concedes gently. He raises his gaze to the others. “For that matter, I do encourage you to speak to one another. The political game wants us to be at odds, to hate one another. Let us not do their work for them.”  
  
“I think the Matrix chose your new designation well,” Starscream says with an arched orbital ridge. “You’re optimistic to think we’ll all be friends.”  
  
“Are you saying it’s too much of a challenge?” Prowl asks, and there’s provocation in his voice, his gaze steady and measured as he looks at Starscream. “Is it beyond your ability, Starscream?”  
  
Starscream rolls his optics. “I’m not going to fall for an obvious goad.”  
  
“Aren’t you?” Jazz challenges.  
  
Fields clash throughout the room, twisting and tangling with invisible bursts of emotional lightning. At least this time, it is not aimed at Optimus himself.  
  
“This is stupid,” Hot Rod says into the rising tension. He snags a tray of treats and pops two into his mouth before he tucks the tray against his chest. “You guys keep talking about how I’m too young and too inexperienced to understand what’s really going on and whatever, but from where I’m standing, everyone in here is acting like a bunch of sparklings.”  
  
Starscream’s jaw drops.  
  
Jazz snickers into his hand.  
  
Prowl’s mouth snaps shut with a click of denta on denta.  
  
“Well,” Ultra Magnus says into the following silence. “Hot Rod might have a point.” He glances at Ironhide. “Training you say?”  
  
“First thing in the morning,” Ironhide says. “Can’t think of a better way to work out this tension, if you ask me.”  
  
Hot Rod laughs. “Umm, I can.” He looks up at Optimus with a wink.  
  
Judging by the chorus of groans from around the table, no one’s overly offended. Optimus manages a smile. Hot Rod is irrepressibly charming. Resisting him is going to be one of the hardest things Optimus will have to do.  
  
“And with that, I’m calling it a night.” Ratchet leverages himself from his chair as if purposefully trying to make every joint creak. “Especially since it looks like I’m going to be patching up a bunch of idiots in the morning.”  
  
“We’re lucky to have you,” Optimus says diplomatically. “I have heard nothing but good things about your talents.”  
  
“Sure.” Ratchet snorts. “You’ll probably change your mind once you get within reach.” He flicks a hand at the room at large. “We’ll see what happens tomorrow.”  
  
“I look forward to it,” Optimus says, both to Ratchet and to Ironhide. “Thank you for the offer. I must admit, I am eager to learn how to protect myself.”  
  
Ironhide’s lip curls in a smirk as Hot Rod muffles a laugh behind his hands. “Y’know, Prime. I’m startin’ to think you’re trying to be enticing on purpose.”  
  
“I have no idea what you mean,” Optimus demurs.  
  
“Sure ya don’t,” Ironhide says, but the twinkle in his optics is the most playful he’s been since they first met.  
  
Optimus considers it a win.  
  
The communal gathering winds down not long after, the Consorts saying their goodbyes and drifting out of the dining hall to their respective quarters. Only Optimus and Ultra Magnus remain, though Hot Rod does linger, making his exit at a slow pace, as if hoping Optimus will invite him to share his berth if he waits just a moment longer.  
  
Not yet.  
  
Finally, the door clicks shut behind Hot Rod, and they are alone.  
  
“That could have gone worse,” Ultra Magnus vents as he relaxes in the chair, losing his stern posture.  
  
“Which part?” Optimus sinks lower into his own chair and drags a half-eaten tray of treats closer. He tosses a handful into his mouth.  
  
Ultra Magnus tips his head. “I could make a list.” He chuckles, but it’s raw and tired. “They took our prior acquaintance with more grace than I expected.” He eyes Optimus peripherally. “I should have known it would be Prowl to bring it up.”  
  
“I told him earlier today, and he also admitted he’d run background checks on all of us prior to his arrival.” Optimus nibbles on another treat, considering. “He’s practical enough, however, that I think I can win him to our side through my deeds.”  
  
“True.” Ultra Magnus’ lips thin together. “I have concerns.”  
  
“About?”  
  
“Jazz.” He rests a hand on the table, fingers drumming a rhythmic beat. “I think Prowl is right to be suspicious. All of my research has been as useless as yours, and I don’t like unknown quantities.”  
  
Optimus tilts his head. “You think he’s dangerous?”  
  
“Very. But whether or not that danger is directed at you or I or any of us…” Ultra Magnus draws in a heavy ventilation. “Jazz has a mask, a very, very good one, and I’m not ashamed to admit how wary I am of what it hides. Be cautious around him.”  
  
Optimus hums and finishes off the last treat, sucking his fingers clean in such a way he’d never show the others. “I doubt the Senate would be so bold as to put an actual assassin forward as a Consort Nominate.”  
  
“Then your faith in them outstrips mine.” Ultra Magnus shakes his head. “I don’t think Jazz is an outright assassin, but nor do I think you should trust him. He’ll say whatever he thinks you want to hear, even if it’s not what he wants or intends for himself.”  
  
Optimus frowns. “He’s already a Consort. He doesn’t have to do anything to ensure he has a place. What would be the point of ingratiating himself to me?”  
  
“The same reason any of the others might try it -- to gain your favor and have all the power.” Ultra Magnus rubs his forehead. “Though if that’s what he’s in for, it’s not for his own sake. I think someone’s pulling his strings.”  
  
“Like most of my Consorts,” Optimus sighs. His own head starts to ache, and he knows, this ache is not leaving anytime soon. At least, not for the length of this month. He has an extraordinary task ahead of him, trying to win these seven Consorts to his side.  
  
He pauses and gives Ultra Magnus a faint smile. “Have I mentioned how grateful I am that you would sacrifice your own aspirations for my sake?”  
  
“My reasons were selfish as well. It was hardly a sacrifice.” Ultra Magnus’ words are dismissive, but his field flutters with warmth.  
  
Optimus works his intake, cycling a ventilation. “I suppose not, given that you were concerned about the Matrix corrupting me.”  
  
Ultra Magnus vents a sigh. “I should have mentioned that to you sooner.” His field turns apologetic as he looks at Optimus. “Orion Pax is one of my dearest friends. His spark has always been a kind and generous one. But history has shown what power can do to a mech. I didn’t want to see that happen to you.”  
  
“Some might argue I am not Orion Pax anymore,” Optimus says quietly.  
  
“I suppose that depends on your definition.” Ultra Magnus leans on the table, hands clasped, optics troubled. “I will always see the echoes of Orion Pax in you even if I am the only one. Cybertron needs Orion Pax to temper Optimus Prime.”  
  
Optimus runs a finger around the rim of his cube. “And if Orion Pax is gone and all that’s left is the Matrix, running the spark of Optimus Prime?”  
  
“It won’t come to that,” Ultra Magnus says, his voice firm and determined. “Other Primes have fallen because they didn’t have anyone who truly supported them. That won’t be the case here. I am by your side, Optimus, for both our sake, and for Cybertron’s.”  
  
The band around his spark that is Ultra Magnus’ presence seems to vibrate with his words as if proving his sincerity.  
  
“Thank you,” Optimus murmurs. “I am lucky to have someone like you watching out for me.”  
  
Ultra Magnus straightens, his gaze shifting elsewhere as though embarrassed. “You don’t have to flatter me. I’m already yours.” He rests a companionable hand on Optimus’ shoulder in an awkward pat. “Save those flirtations for one of the others.”  
  
“You think I’m not genuinely attracted to you?” Optimus lays his hand over Magnus’ before his friend can pull away. “I may not view you as a romantic partner, but that doesn’t mean I’m blind to your appeal. Any mech would be lucky to have you, and I’m luckier still that you’ve chosen me.”  
  
He looks up, meeting Ultra Magnus’ gaze, trying to push sincerity into every wisp of his field. He does not hold romantic feelings for Ultra Magnus, true. He has never harbored deep fantasies of taking Ultra Magnus to his berth either. But he does love Ultra Magnus, and he does treasure their friendship, and it was no hardship to spark bond with Magnus, just as it’ll be a pleasure to take Magnus to berth, should they both desire it.  
  
Those truths do not make their relationship any lesser than whatever Optimus might earn with the other Consorts.  
  
Ultra Magnus’ field wobbles before it surges with affection, washing over Optimus in a wave of warmth. “And that, my friend, is why this was no sacrifice.”  
  
He leans down, brushing his lips over Optimus’ temple. “Get some rest. Tomorrow is another busy day.”  
  
“And a painful one, if Ironhide has anything to say about it,” Optimus says. “Good night, Magnus.”  
  
“Rest well, my Prime.”  
  
Ultra Magnus departs, and Optimus is not too ashamed to pick over the rest of the treats, selecting all of his favorites and stashing them away. Some habits are not forgotten, no matter how quickly the change in status.  
  


***


	3. Chapter 3

Orion Pax had been a mech accustomed to solitude and stacks of datawork. He could get lost in the archives for hours with no one the wiser, speaking only to those who sought him out, while relishing in the peace and quiet.

Optimus Prime has no such luxuries. Everything he does is now under scrutiny, in the public optic, and he can no longer hide in the shadowy, dusty, forgotten corners of a library. There’s no such thing as privacy for a Prime.

Not even for a training session where he’s sure to be tossed around, gaining numerous scratches and dents, which will certainly upset Sunstreaker. Perhaps he’ll be inclined to fix them.

Optimus expected Hot Rod to join the training session. He is surprised when nearly everyone else does as well, some perhaps to observe, others to participate. Even Starscream is present, perched nearby, with a perfect view of the space. Of his Consorts, only Jazz is missing, and Optimus makes a mental note to seek him out.

Optimus does his best to look unbothered by the attention.

“I ain’t worried about marksmanship,” Ironhide says as he surveys a gathered array of practice equipment, all procured from the estate’s armory.

Optimus isn’t sure why the Prime’s private estate has a fully stocked armory. He suspects it has something to do with the grounds doubling as a safehouse in the event of threats to the Prime or the Prime Residence or Cybertron at large.

“We’ll focus on hand to hand for starters,” Ironhide continues as he shakes his head and walks away from the practice equipment. Considering what he’s used to in Nova Cronum, his options here must be substandard. “Might be we’ll move into actual weapons once I’m sure you won’t knock yourself out with one.”

“Surely you do not think I am so clumsy?” Optimus asks.

“I think anyone who is not used to weaponry is awkward enough to hurt themselves,” Ironhide says with a half-curve of a grin, though there’s no malice in the comment. “Relax, Prime. I’ve trained thousands of soldiers in my lifetime. I know what I’m doin’.”

Optimus shakes his head. “I did not mean to imply otherwise,” he says. “And please, feel free to call me Optimus. We do not have to be so formal together.”

“Oh, we do not, do we?” Ironhide says, his tone abruptly proper and far from the casual drawl he effects. “You should take your own advice, Optimus Prime, instead of holding us at arm’s length. Perhaps you might think to loosen your glossa.”

Optimus glances at their audience, some of whom have clumped together, and others who stand apart, avidly watching as they idly sip on their morning’s energon. “I’ll try,” he says, though he admits it’s hard to find that balance between what will earn him respect, and what will cause his Consorts to dismiss him. “I am still very new to this.”

“Yeah. It’s the only reason half of us are even given’ ya a chance,” Ironhide says with a shrug, dropping back into the casual speech pattern he favors. “Just don’t assume my not usin’ it means I don’t know how. It’s a conscious decision, Optimus.”

“You are more than a soldier. I am not so blind as to not see it.” Optimus smiles, and relief loosens his shoulders as Ironhide returns it with a lazy grin. “What do we learn first then?”

Ironhide chuckles and steps closer. “Proper stance. It’s the best foundation. If you get your feet under you, can’t nobody knock you down.” He half-turns to holler over his shoulder. “Pay attention, kiddo, and anyone else who cares. I’m only explainin’ this once.”

“Then speak up, rustbucket!” Hot Rod shouts back, lips curved in a smirk.

“Brat,” Ironhide grumbles, but it’s all in good fun as he turns his attention back to Optimus. “Now, you’re taller than me, and your center of balance is different than mine. You’re gonna be planted a bit differently, but the concept’s all the same.”

Optimus nods as Ironhide starts to explain, demonstrating first with himself, then guiding Optimus through the proper stance. Ironhide relaxes as he falls into an instructive mode, and though he’s gruff, Optimus can see why so many mechs spoke highly of him.

“You’re a quick learner,” Ironhide says after a half-dozen attempts to knock Optimus out of his stance are thwarted. “Either you’re a natural, or the Matrix is helping.”

“I hope it’s more of the former,” Optimus says, his vents coming a little faster from exertion.

He had never been a mech built for physical activities. Even after his ascension, he’s been so thoroughly escorted from one place to another, he hasn’t had the opportunity to test the endurance of his new frame. Part of his exhaustion is due to the fact he still isn’t used to the restructured dimensions.

Ironhide chuckles. “So do I. Means it’ll be more instinctual than trained. Can’t rely on that artifact after all.” He playfully knocks Optimus’ chassis. “It might not always work in your best interest.”

“A fair point.” Optimus manages a smile before drawing up straight, ignoring the hitch in his back cables, and the subtle twinge of his struts. “What next, Instructor Ironhide?”

“Well, for one, you can never call me that again.” Ironhide looses a theatrical shudder before he eyes Optimus. “And I think you need a break. You’re still a soft shell. We’ll have to work on your stamina.”

Optimus sags with relief. “You will not think less of me?”

“Slag, no. You get the gentle training.” Ironhide chuckles and waves Optimus over to one of several benches they’d dragged into places round their makeshift training course. “Have a seat.”

“Thank you.”

Optimus retreats and sinks down gratefully, an ache settling in his cables despite how little physicality he seems to have exerted. He thinks longingly of the plentiful hot oil baths in the manor, and resolves to carve out some time to spend in one.

“Not a bad start, I’d say.” Starscream struts into the middle of the training course, wings flicking with excitement. “Of course, it’s not the only method.”

“Well, don’t let me stop ya from showin’ us a better way,” Ironhide says, waving Starscream forward. “I’ll just have myself a sit down, and you can take on the bratling.”

“Hey, I resemble that remark.” Hot Rod bounces into the course, looking up at Starscream with a bright grin. “What’re you going to teach me, wings?”

“Wings?” Starscream echoes, and his smile turns sharp-edged. “Well, that’s a better nickname than others have given me. I’ll let it slide.”

“Kid can be pretty persuasive.” Ironhide sinks down beside Optimus, offering him some universal coolant.

Optimus accepts with a quiet thanks. “Hot Rod is a force of nature, I have discovered,” he says. “He is the kind of gentle spark Cybertron needs.”

Ironhide grunts. “And your cohort, too.”

“I suppose that was the reason behind his nomination,” Optimus demurs.

He and Ironhide have relative privacy at the moment, most of the Consorts gathered around the training area, offering critique to Starscream and Hot Rod. No one is paying him and Ironhide much attention -- likely because Ultra Magnus is doing a fair job of keeping their gazes focused on the course.

“You don’t know?” Ironhide asks.

“The Senate likes to keep their motivations hidden from me though I have done my best to research their intentions.” Optimus watches Starscream toss Hot Rod from his feet, and the flame-colored mech land on his aft with a visible pout. “It’s why I am aware of how little most of you want to be here.”

Ironhide grunts. “Wasn’t my choice, no.”

“I apologize for that,” Optimus says.

“Wasn’t your fault. Seems to me you didn’t have much choice in being Prime either. I’ve been alive a long time. I know how that works.” Ironhide slouches, reaching one arm across the back of the bench, his gaze distant. “Doesn’t mean I’m about to bend the knee. I’ve been through too many Primes, and I don’t know you.”

Optimus cups the coolant, resting it on his thigh. “A fair assertion.” He drums a quiet, nonsense rhythm with his fingers. “I looked into everyone, Ironhide. I know what they forced you to leave behind. Or whom to be more specific.”

Ironhide goes still, his field shutting down, guarded. “S’that right?”

“Yes.” Optimus glances to the other Consorts, but none are paying them attention, so he shifts the full force of his attention to Ironhide. “I will do everything in my power to ensure you and Chromia can remain together.”

Ironhide’s jaw tics. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, gaze locked on Hot Rod, whose training session has now been joined by Sunstreaker. “I’m bonded to you, Prime. Can’t change that.”

“There is nothing in the law which prohibits a Consort from taking another bond,” Optimus says. “Further, the bond we will have allows for the existence of other bonds concurrently. They operate on different tiers of the spark.”

“Yeah?” Ironhide snorts, eyeing Optimus peripherally. “We both know what’s actually law and what ain’t don’t mean slag to the Senate.”

Optimus lifts his chin. “Then the Senate can spend its time trying to fight me in the legislature, or it can waste its efforts controlling what happens in my home.” Straightforward and blunt is the best way to get through to Ironhide, he’s sure of it. “I would see all of you happy, and for you specifically, I know having Chromia is one of the best ways to ensure such a thing.”

Ironhide barks a bitter laugh. “Yeah. Thanks for that. But Chromia would have my aft if I dragged her all the way to Iacon to sit pretty in some apartment.” His field turns dark and angry. “I’ve resigned myself to letting her go.”

“There is another option.” Optimus shifts to better focus on Ironhide, a quick glance ensuring they still have privacy. All of the action is in the makeshift training area. “I would like Chromia to lead the Primal Guard.”

Ironhide startles, abruptly straightening, his field spiking in a betrayal of his surprise. “What?”

“She’s one of the most skilled soldiers in Cybertronian history. She’s loyal, she’s fearless, and she’s relentless,” Optimus says. “I want people I can trust around me, people who care about Cybertron itself, and as far as I can tell, Chromia is someone I can be comfortable giving that position. That it ensures her nearness to you is a secondary benefit.”

Ironhide squints at him. “You tryin’ to bribe me, Prime?”

“If anything, I’m trying to bribe _her_ ,” Optimus corrects in a bit of a dry tone. “I intend to be a Prime the people will love, but the Senate and the nobility will despise. It is only a matter of time before those in the upper echelon decide I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”

Ironhide sits back again, trying to appear casual despite the taut lines of his armor and the harsh set of his jaw. “You think putting Chromia in danger is the way to win me?”

“I think that it is exactly the type of position she would want,” Optimus says carefully. If his information is at all accurate, he knows it is the sort of challenge Chroma would relish. She’s a warrior, through and through.

Ironhide stares at him. “You really did your research.”

“Knowledge is the best way to prepare,” Optimus says.

Ironhide tilts his head back and barks a laugh. “Spoken like a true data clerk. Guess little Orion’s not entirely gone, eh?” He gives Optimus a crooked grin, the corner of his mouth all that softens. “You’re right. Chromia would take that position in a sparkbeat, and she’d have my aft if I tried to keep it from her.”

He glances at the others, but no one is paying them any attention. Ultra Magnus is a large, imposing presence affording them this privacy, and anyway, it seems Hot Rod serves as an adorable distraction. He takes his repeated defeats with cheerful aplomb, even as Starscream and Sunstreaker mercilessly instruct him. Ratchet and Prowl are off to the side, deep in discussion about something, though Optimus can see the storm brewing over the medic’s face with every harsh impact Hot Rod takes.

“I will offer it to her regardless,” Optimus says. “It does not come with any obligations. I do not expect anything of you as a result.”

“S’that right?”

“Yes.” Optimus cycles a ventilation. “Selfishly, I recognize that a truly loyal guardian is more effective than a pressured one, but I also wish for each and every one of my Consorts to be as free and happy as I can manage considering the circumstances.”

Ironhide raps the back of the bench. “Pragmatic of you.”

“I spent many years in the archives. What lessons Cybertron at large has not taken from history, I have learned myself.” Optimus’ field tentatively reaches out, offering every ounce of sincerity he has to give. “Loyalty will never be won by fear or force.”

Ironhide stares at him. “Huh,” he says after a moment. “I think ya actually believe that.”

“I do.”

“Yeah, and I’m thinkin’ I might believe you.” He kicks out, scuffing the ground with his heel. “If you’re half as good a mech as ya claim ta be, the Senate’s gonna hate ya.”

Optimus sinks into the bench, letting his shoulders yield a touch of relaxation. “I am resigned to it. I do wonder how long it will take before their first assassination attempt.”

“They’ll wait at least a deca-orn.” Ironhide scratches his jaw, contemplating. “But they won’t get anywhere near ya if Chromia’s working your security. She’s the best.” Pride and affection both brim in his field. “You couldn’t be any safer. Well…” His grin turns a little crooked. “More self-defense training ain’t gonna hurt.”

Optimus inclines his head. “I will do my part to keep myself safe. I don’t want my guards to put themself in harm’s way needlessly.”

“Primus, ya mean that, too.” Ironhide tosses his hands in the air before dropping them to his thighs with a quiet smack. “Fine, fine. I give in. I concede. Yer not even half the aft I thought ya would be.”

“Time will tell,” Optimus says, amusement threatening to thread into his tone. “This could all be an elaborate mask.”

“True.” Ironhide side-eyes him. “I’ve lived a long-aft time, Prime. I’m a pretty decent judge of character, and right now, I’m decidin’ to see where this goes.” He points at Optimus, orbital ridge drawing down. “But don’t think for a second that means I’m droppin’ my guard.”

“I only ask for a chance,” Optimus says.

“Then you have it.” Ironhide shoves to his feet, stretching his arms over his head, cables creaking and groaning from the effort. “And if you want to stay alive long enough to do whatever lofty goals you’re devising, we’re gonna train every day. First thing in the morning.”

Optimus swallows a wince. Early mornings spent in physical exertion are not his idea of a good time. “... Very well,” he says.

Ironhide barks a laugh. “Now ya sound like a Prime.” He rolls his shoulders, several snaps and pops radiating from his frame. “I’ll let ya off the hook for the rest of today, since I’m sure ya got other mechs ya wanna chat with, but I won’t be so merciful tomorrow.”

For all that it sounds like a threat, Ironhide’s rakish grin and light field are friendly and affectionate.

“I shall make sure to get more than enough rest. Thank you, Ironhide.”

Ironhide grins. “Sure thing, Optimus.” He struts off, looking remarkably lighter than when he first arrived, and Optimus ex-vents quiet satisfaction.

“Alright, kid. Ya want some real trainin’ or not?” Ironhide boasts as he strides into the middle of the training ground, causing the other Consorts to scatter to make room.

Starscream chuffs. “Are you implying I am incapable of teaching a softplate self-defense?”

“Oh, I’m sure yer capable enough. But are ya gonna stick to it?” Ironhide says.

“Mm. Fair point. I have much better things to do than toss myself around a training course every day.” Starscream waves Ironhide off as he retreats back to the fencing, out of the way but left with a decent view. “Allow me to watch a master at work then.” He smirks as he leans back, arms crossed over his cockpit.

Ironhide, for his part, doesn’t seem the least bit ruffled by the scrutiny. Neither is Hot Rod, who’s bouncing on his heelstruts. If he’s bothered by the dents, scrapes, and coating of dust, it doesn’t show. His enthusiasm remains undampened.

Or perhaps Prowl’s warning of danger hangs over his head.

“You do that. Might even learn something,” Ironhide says.

Starscream scoffs.

“Judging by his good humor, your conversation went well,” Ultra Magnus says as he lowers himself next to Optimus, taking the seat Ironhide had vacated.

Optimus nods. “Ironhide has a built in bargaining chip.”

“Chromia?”

“Yes.” Optimus finishes off the coolant and tucks the empty into his subspace, to be disposed of later. “I hope that upon our return to Iacon, I will have an acceptance contract from Chromia, and I will have a new guard captain.”

“It would be the optimal outcome, I agree,” Ultra Magnus says. “For my part, I’m simply glad to see them interacting without an argument.”

Optimus makes a quiet hum of agreement.

Ironhide is currently in the midst of quietly explaining something to a very rapt Hot Rod as Prowl stands nearby, offering commentary. Starscream’s perch on the fence gives off the impression of an avian predator, at least until he pulls out a datapad. Ratchet’s off to the side, aiming a scanner at Sunstreaker at though it is a weapon while Sunstreaker scowls and continues to point imperiously at a scratch on his right arm. Even Soundwave has deigned to join them, though he stands apart from the others.

Optimus counts twice before he realizes they are still short one Consort. He frowns.

“Where is Jazz?”

“I have not seen him today,” Ultra Magnus says. “There is nowhere he can go, and logically, it is too soon for anyone to strike, but his absence worries me.”

“I was thinking much the same thing.” Optimus stands, swallowing his sigh. “Perhaps one of the others has seen him.”

“Good luck.”

Optimus approaches Prowl first, trusting the Enforcer’s observation skills, but Prowl shakes his head. “His room is beside mine. I hear nothing from it, and I have not seen him today.”.

“Can you think of anywhere on the grounds he might prefer?” Optimus asks.

“Honestly, I don’t know. Jazz is the one I understand the least.” Prowl frowns, his arms folding under his bumper as his sensory panels hitch upward. “I don’t know him, and I don’t trust those I can’t know. He makes me uneasy, Optimus.”

“I have noticed,” Optimus says.

Prowl cycles a ventilation. “Be careful around him. Whatever game he’s playing, it’s one few of us, if any, will understand.”

“I will. Thank you, Prowl.”

He tries Starscream next, to little luck, and neither Ratchet nor Sunstreaker have seen Jazz. Hot Rod and Ironhide are in the midst of a complicated grapple, one that Hot Rod seems in no great hurry to escape, so Optimus approaches Soundwave instead.

“Roof,” Soundwave says as Optimus gets within a few paces of him.

Optimus cycles his audials. “Beg pardon?”

Soundwave has yet to look at him. “Jazz. Roof.” He turns his head, the line of his gaze leading back to the mansion proper.

“Oh.” Optimus lingers for a second more, a bit put off by Soundwave’s terse reply. Perhaps he’s not ready to speak yet. “I see. Thank you.”

He walks away feeling unsettled, and doesn’t glance back, though perhaps he should. He knows as much about Soundwave as he does about Jazz, though he suspects the methods behind the information concealment are different between them. Jazz hides himself behind a mask of being ordinary. Soundwave comes from a city-state with shoddy record-keeping, especially when it comes to those of lower status.

Honestly, Optimus is surprised the Senate had accepted Soundwave’s nomination at all. Kaon’s climate has been one of unsettling dissidence as of late, so to give it any voice seems contrary to the Senate’s efforts to silence the outspoken many. Though he’s also heard how persuasive Senator Ratbat can be, and his designation is all over Soundwave’s nomination.

Ah, Cybertron’s government is a political migraine, and Optimus does not look forward to untangling the many threads. It is one of many reasons he’s eternally grateful Ultra Magnus had followed him into this madness. It is the sort of chaos where Ultra Magnus thrives.

Meanwhile, Optimus can only think longingly of dark, dusty stacks of archival information where his largest concern is whether to file them by author or era.

He will never have such peace again.

Optimus pulls up the schematics of the mansion and finds a route to the roof. There are two access points, though he finds it odd there are access points at all, and heads to the nearest one. It is also, conveniently, the only one of the two Optimus can actually squeeze through.

He worries about his mass and whether the roof can support his weight, but it holds strong, without a creak, and thank Primus, Jazz is nearby. He’s staring in Optimus’ direction, a half-smile on his lips, one that broadens to outright amusement.

“Ya could’ve asked me ta come down,” he drawls. “Methinks yer a bit too big to be up here, Prime.”

“The thought occurs to me only a bit too late,” Optimus says. “Would you like company?”

Jazz rises, nimbly crossing the roof to Optimus’ side. “I think you’re a bit too big to come to me as it is, but sure. Why not?” He waves to an open bit of rooftop with a nice view of the training grounds beneath them. “Pretty stable right here, for a big bot like you.”

“I appreciate it.” Optimus lowers himself carefully as Jazz lands in a sprawl next to him, full of casual ease in every line of his relaxed frame.

“Guess that means it’s my turn on the chopping block, eh?” Jazz folds his arms behind his head, crossing one leg over his drawn up knee so that his foot can bob to a tune only he can hear. “Go on. Lemme have it.”

There’s not a spark of fear in his field. His every phrase, every armor twitch, is open and inviting and eager. Optimus doesn’t believe it for a second. Granted, he is comparing Jazz’s actions to Hot Rod’s open enthusiasm and Ultra Magnus’ gentle affection, but still.

He can’t find a spark of genuine sincerity in Jazz’s field. There are a lot of things mechs can fake, but this? Jazz can’t fake sincerity. Not from the Matrix.

“I do not think of it as a chopping block,” Optimus says. “I do wish to get to know you. We are going to be attached to one another for a long time. I would like to do so as friends.”

Jazz’s foot bounce-bounce-bounces. “We can be friends. I don’t see why we can’t. Whatcha wanna know?”

He supposes if he wants to know anything, he’ll have to play the game.

Optimus ex-vents slowly, pushing relaxation into his limbs to strengthen his balance. “I understand you are a musician.”

It passes in an instant, almost too quick for Optimus to catch, but there’s a flash of volcanic anger rippling through Jazz’s field before it’s washed out by pride and delight.

“Sure am,” he says. “I can play just about anything you put in front of me. Got some very talented fingers.” His visor flickers in a playful wink. “You’ll have to let me show you sometime.”

“I think everyone would be interested in hearing you play,” Optimus says. “Do you have a preferred instrument?”

“Hmm.” Jazz taps his bottom lip, dragging the pad of his finger back and forth across it. “I’m pretty fond of my electro-bass, but I know the crowds like the synth.”

“I think I speak for everyone when I say we would enjoy whatever you choose to play for us,” Optimus says. He can’t imagine anyone turning down a live performance from a talented musician.

“Right then.” Jazz flashes him a bright, salacious grin. “How about a show after dinner then? A little concert for whoever wants to listen. I can do that.”

“I think that sounds like a good plan,” Optimus says.

Jazz straightens out his leg and stretches them both, before crossing them at the ankles, drawing out the lines of his frame in a languorous stretch. “And then after, I can give you a private show, if you want,” he murmurs.

Optimus can’t put into words why Jazz’s obvious flirtations leave him unsettled compared to the obvious flirtations Hot Rod throws at him, but they leave a discomfort in his tanks, and an urge to run in the other direction.

“I think everyone else should be allowed to appreciate your talents as well,” Optimus says, careful to keep the unease out of his voice and field. The Matrix is helpful for both. “It would be selfish to keep such things to myself.”

Jazz snorts. “Sure thing, boss.” He gives Optimus a sidelong look. “Is that all you wanted to talk to me about? My tunes?”

“Not entirely.” Optimus runs a brief system check, struggling to find the words. Jazz puts him off balance like no one he has ever met. “I do want you to know that despite the circumstances of our meeting, I want to do my best to ensure your comfort here and make the best of a complicated situation.”

“Oh, don’t you worry that pretty head about me, Optimus. I’m flexible, adaptable, and know how to make myself at home. I’m gonna be just fine.” Jazz smiles at him, all brightness and intrigue and enthusiasm, and it makes Optimus cold to his spark.

“I am glad to hear it,” Optimus says. He feels he’s at something of a standstill. Jazz isn’t giving him anything to work with, not like the others. “Most of us are gathered at the training grounds, some to practice, some to observe. You are welcome to join us.”

Jazz folds his arms behind his head, his visor going dim. “Nah. I’m good right here for now. Soakin’ up summa of that good false-light if ya know what I mean.”

No, Optimus really doesn’t.

It’s a continued point of contention, Cybertron’s wobbly orbit around a dark star, where the slightest eruption could tear them away, forcing their planet to hurtle through space, with or without their moons. The glow from within is not nearly enough to combat the choking grasp of the blackness of space, and the miles upon miles of false-light designed to mimic the solar cycle is only a stark reminder of what they’re soon to lose.

“Very well,” Optimus concedes. He stands, brushing bits of rustdust from his armor, that and gathered grit from the duststorm that hit prior to their arrival. “Will I see you at the gathering tonight then?”

“Course. I’ll bring my electrobass, and I might even wear bells.” Jazz winks and grins a giant grin.

Optimus isn’t sure what he means by ‘bells’, but he suspects it’s an implication he won’t like.

“I look forward to it,” Optimus says, for lack of anything better to say, and excuses himself before Jazz can confuse him any further. He honestly can’t tell if he’s made any progress, or if he’s only played right into Jazz’s hands.

He’d thought, initially, Starscream might be the most troublesome of his Consorts to meet on neutral ground. It might be time to re-evaluate his estimations because Jazz is playing an entirely different game than Optimus.

He’ll have to discuss it with Ultra Magnus later. For now, Optimus returns to the training grounds though there are fewer of his Consorts present. Prowl and Soundwave are both gone, while Sunstreaker and Ironhide currently circle each other in the pit, their expressions more intent and serious than a casual spar might suggest. Starscream studies them, orbital ridges drawn down.

Ratchet and Hot Rod are off to the side, Ratchet muttering too quiet to hear while Hot Rod sulks, looking more than worse for wear.

Optimus joins Ultra Magnus at the fence, his attention drawn by Ironhide and Sunstreaker’s fierce spar. Ironhide looks focused, but entertained, his field sparking joy in all directions. Sunstreaker’s lips are twisted in a scowl, but there’s no hiding the delight in his field either. He throws himself at Ironhide, again and again, and despite what should be an obvious difference of skill between them, he’s more than holding his own.

“I knew Sunstreaker fought in the pits, but I didn’t realize how skilled he actually was,” Optimus murmurs.

“I believe that was a deliberate deception,” Ultra Magnus says, optics narrow, contemplation written across his brow. “His official file only labels him as an artist, though any mech could see that as a falsehood simply by watching him. No artist moves with the awareness of their surroundings the way that Sunstreaker does.”

Optimus is not much of a fighter himself, but even he can tell Ironhide is not going easy on Sunstreaker, not like he had with Hot Rod. He’s not pulling his punches, and when Sunstreaker does knock him down, there’s surprise in Ironhide’s optics.

“Still, he’s not classically trained. His skills seem to be an eclectic collection, likely learned through a lifetime of necessity.” Ultra Magnus’ lips form a thin line, his engine giving a small rev. “He cleaned up nicely, and I suspect that was the point.”

Optimus frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I think you’ve been given a very pretty assassin,” Ultra Magnus says.

“You said the same thing about Jazz, and I still don’t think either of them are assassins,” Optimus pauses to correct, “Spies, maybe, meant to entice and distract, but not assassinate. It would be too obvious.”

“Mm.” Ultra Magnus vents a sigh and some of the tension in his armor bleeds out. “Jazz, I suspect, comes from very high political channels. Sunstreaker is here from something else.”

Optimus chews on that for a second. “Organized crime, you mean.”

“It would not surprise me.”

Optimus folds his arms. “Sunstreaker is not behaving like he’s happy to be here. If this were a job to him, wouldn’t he be trying to curry my favor rather than attempting to avoid it?”

“You and I both know family can be a powerful coercion,” Ultra Magnus says, quieter still, as if he thinks someone might be eavesdropping on them or doesn’t wish his voice to carry. “Sunstreaker is very pretty. If they wanted to put someone enticing in front of you, I doubt they could have chosen better, especially with his built-in leverage.”

Anger thickens in Optimus’ chassis before he swallows it down. “We’ll look into it further when we get back to Iacon. Until then…”

“You’ll have to do your best to get Sunstreaker to open up and secure his loyalty,” Ultra Magnus says.

In the arena, Ironhide slams Sunstreaker down, twisting around the golden mech, pinning him firmly. A cloud of dust rises up, the sound of metal clashing against metal echoing around them.

“Yield!” Ironhide growls.

“Watch the paint!” Sunstreaker snarls.

Ironhide shifts, only a fraction, and pain flickers over Sunstreaker’s face before the tension in his frame abruptly goes slack.

“Fine,” Sunstreaker snaps. “I yield. Now get the frag off me.”

Ironhide chuckles, but Ratchet’s voice cuts across the training grounds, clear as a bell. “All right, that’s enough! I’ve already pulled out more dents than I care to, and I’m not fixing up anymore.”

“We’re done, Ratch. Calm yer rusty aft down,” Ironhide grumbles. He climbs to his feet and offers Sunstreaker a hand, which the golden mech accepts.

“We’ll talk later,” Optimus says as Ratchet and Ironhide exchange a few good-natured snipes at each other. “I had a conversation with Jazz you’ll find interesting, too.”

“Yes, Prime,” Ultra Magnus says, but his hand on Optimus’ shoulder is affectionate and teasing, before it slips away.

“Ratchet has a point,” Optimus says, loud enough for everyone else to hear him. “Perhaps we could all do with some washing up and some rest before the evening refuel.”

Ironhide sweeps a towel off the fence and gives his armor a cursory brush. “That an order, Prime?”

“A friendly suggestion only,” Optimus says.

“Think of it as an order from me then,” Ratchet says as he shoos off Hot Rod, and tries to snag Sunstreaker, but the latter is already stalking toward the mansion, glowering at a significant streak on his right arm.

“Sir, yes, sir.” Ironhide sketches a mocking salute, but rather than growl, Ratchet rolls his optics and starts to pack up his supplies.

Apparently, he goes everywhere with a medical kit. Or perhaps he’d known how much trouble they’d get into it and came prepared. Either way, he’s a medic after Optimus’ spark.

The Consorts disperse; Ratchet lingers. It is as good a time as any to approach Ratchet, with this built in opening available for Optimus to take advantage of.

“I appreciate you looking after everyone,” Optimus says as Ratchet examines something with a critical optic before tossing it back into his kit.

“It’s what I do,” Ratchet says. He gives Optimus a sidelong look. “Was wondering when you were going to get around to me.”

Optimus eyes Ratchet’s packing, but sees nowhere he can offer assistance. “You could have approached me.”

“And happily submit to this farce? Frag that.” Ratchet flicks a hand and snorts. He squints at Optimus. “I’m sure you know all about me, so I’ll tell you this, stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours.”

Well. Optimus can say this much, Ratchet certainly doesn’t pull any punches, and unlike some of the others, he’s not interested in playing any political games, or bothering with a verbal spar.

It’s refreshing.

“Does that mean friendship is out of the question?” he asks.

Ratchet shoves something else into his kit and closes the lid with a loud snap. “I don’t have a good track record with those. Might be in your best interest to keep me at arms length.”

“I believe it is never too late for a fresh start. I am willing to make the effort,” Optimus says.

Ratchet snorts again, but this time, there’s amusement rather than derision in his field. “You say that now, but you’ve only known me for a few days. Give it time.”

“Time is something we have in abundance. I would rather be on your side than against you,” Optimus says.

“Well, you’re not stupid then.” Ratchet barks a laugh and throws the kit over his shoulder, hefting the heavy crate as if it weighs nothing. Perhaps what they say about a medic’s inbuilt strength is true. “I know a thousand ways to kill you and make it look like an accident.”

Despite himself, Optimus chuckles. “Have you considered that pointing out such things may be why your track record with friends is poor?”

“Are you suggesting I scare them away?” Ratchet squints.

Optimus holds up his arms in surrender before he tucks them behind his back, falling in step beside Ratchet. “No, I think you prefer not to waste your time on empty relationships. You only bother to deepen those which matter.”

“Or I’m just an aft.”

Optimus makes a non-committal noise. “I stand by my assessment.” He watches Ratchet in his periphery. “I know the circumstances of our interaction are not ideal, but I would still like the opportunity to prove my intentions are true.”

“Mm.” Ratchet looks up at him, head tilted, and Optimus feels the distinct tingle of a scan wash over his armor. “How’s that feeling, by the way? It’s been, what, a month since they shoved that thing inside of you?”

“A little over it, yes,” Optimus says, though he’s amused Ratchet has reduced the most revered relic of all Cybertronians to ‘that thing’. “I will admit it is an odd sensation. The Matrix shifts from time to time, as though settling to get comfortable, and it stirs as if it has a sentience of its own.”

“You don’t know for sure?”

Optimus frowns, contemplating. “It did not come with a manual, and when I ask the priests, they have no experience to draw upon. Only a Prime knows how it feels to carry a Matrix, and there is only ever one living at a time.”

“Pity,” Ratchet drawls unconvincingly. “What about your frame? Most mechs don’t go through a rapid reformat like you did.”

“I am still getting used to the change in my center of balance,” Optimus admits. “I am more massive and taller than I used to be. I am also stronger. It took me a few tries to grip an energon cube without shattering it.”

“Night purges?”

“None,” Optimus says, and it isn’t quite a lie. He does dream, but they are not memory echoes, or if they are memories, they are not his own. They are shadows of things he has never experienced, and distant voices speaking in a language he does not understand.

These he blames on the Matrix, and since no one has any concept of how a mech is meant to properly interact with the Matrix, there’s no point in bringing it up to Ratchet.

“Hmm.” Ratchet looks him up and down. “Who’s your physician?”

“I was hoping it would be you,” Optimus says.

Ratchet stops in his tracks, blinking up at Optimus, his field buzzing with disbelief. “Come again?”

“There is a reason you were slated to become Chief Medical Officer before you were nominated to my cohort,” Optimus says, slowing to a stop and turning to face Ratchet. “You are ranked in the top of your field, and you are more than qualified. I cannot think of anyone else I would rather trust.”

“Trust?” Ratchet scoffs, his gaze distant, over Optimus’ left shoulder. “You don’t know the first thing about me, Prime. That’s a pretty bold assertion considering we just met.”

“Your record speaks for itself, and if we are going to be friends at the very least, it starts with an extension of trust,” Optimus says. “I would put my frame and my spark in your hands before I would any other.”

Ratchet stares at him for a long moment before he chuffs a vent and drags a palm down his face. “You’re an idiot,” he says, behind his hand, before he drops it. “But fine. I know when I’m beaten. You’re too earnest for me.” He thrusts out a hand. “I guess I’m willing to see where this goes.”

Optimus takes the hand with a firm shake. “And I am determined to earn your trust in return.”

“You’re making a pretty good effort of it now, though we’ll have to see where it goes before I sign on the dotted line.” Ratchet’s shake is firm before he takes his hand back and starts toward the manor again, adjusting the crate on his shoulder.

“I can live with that,” Optimus says.

They part ways inside the main hall, Ratchet toward his room, and Optimus toward his own. There’s grit in his joints, in his gears, and a long soak in the heated oil pool will do much to soothe his aching cables before he joins the others tonight.

He has made progress with Ironhide and Ratchet today and that feels like a victory, no matter how small. He’s at a standstill with Jazz, but there is time yet to determine how to crack that icy wall.

Optimus steps into his own berthchamber, giving it a cursory glance as has become his habit now he is Prime and therefore a target. All seems well, save that his console is blinking at him, indicating he has a message.

This private time with his Consorts is meant to be a disconnect from the outside world, to give him the opportunity to focus on them and their new relationships. Optimus also suspects it is an excuse for the Senate to do whatever they like without the oversight of a Prime to potentially disrupt them. That the isolation is likely to exacerbate the already tense relationship between the Prime and his Consorts would only be a benefit to them.

Optimus should not be receiving any communications at all, except emergency situations, but there is a particular exception in his case.

He logs into the console, skimming the message. Not an emergency, but a notification, as he’d suspected. Skyfire’s transport will arrive first thing in the morning, as the nominate from Altihex, he will complete Optimus’ retinue of Consorts.

And potentially disturbing the tentative balance they’ve established.

Starscream has history with Skyfire, one fraught with tension and potential discord . He’ll have to give Starscream a warning, lest he ruffle the Seeker’s proverbial feathers.

Optimus acknowledges the notification and powers down his console with a sigh. This is frustrating and stressful, but on the upside, diplomatically dealing with his Consorts is excellent practice for the eventual diplomacy he’ll have to mete out to the Senate and its related enterprises.

For now, however, there’s an oil bath calling for him, and he could do with a bit of relaxation.

***


	4. Chapter 4

The mood is remarkably lighter around the table this time around. Much of the tension has lifted out of the air, and there is less a sizzling distaste for Optimus.

No one outright glares at him. Optimus considers that improvement. Especially when Jazz rises, climbing up into the center of the table no less, a small stringed instrument in hand.

“I hope you don’t mind a little entertainment with your energon,” he drawls as he holds the nyckelharpa in place and lays a flat rod against the glowing lines. “I’m going to start with something slow and melodic.”

“I, for one, am not going to protest,” Ultra Magnus says.

“I don’t think anyone else is either,” drawls Starscream, his optics glittering as he looks up at Jazz. “Provided you have any talent at that thing, I mean.”

Jazz’s lips pull in a slow, challenging smirk. “Just you wait and see, Screamer.” He drags the bar across the glowing lines, a long, mournful sound rising from the instrument. “I’m gonna knock you on your aft.”

Music flows out, slowly at first, a lovely melody that fills the gathering room and silences all murmurs of conversation. Optimus sits back, enjoying his energon, as he listens, and thinks that he’s getting a glimpse of Jazz’s true self for the first time.

The smirk slides from Jazz’s lips, his expression one of blissful concentration. His visor dims. He sways where he stands, there in the center of the table, hands moving skillfully over the keys of the nyckelharpa. There’s genuine enjoyment, genuine peace, in the escaping wisps of Jazz’s energy field.

Perhaps there’s hope for him yet.

Jazz has everyone’s attention. Conversation is nonexistent as everyone snacks and listens, the ambient tension fizzling out to nothing, as one haunting melody drifts into a second and then a third. They aren’t tunes familiar to Optimus, and he wonders if they are Jazz’s personal compositions.

Something to ask at another time.

It is perhaps that reason it takes Optimus a second to realize that Jazz’s tempo has been steadily increasing, albeit so gradually he almost didn’t notice. The somber, solemn song grows faster and faster and faster, until the rhythm is less a quiet background music, and more an upbeat invitation to rise and seize the day.

Hot Rod grins and leaps to his feet. “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” he says, pushing his chair back into place with a loud screech. “Something for us to groove to.”

Jazz chuckles, his visor brightening by a fraction, focusing on Hot Rod. “I thought you might like an opportunity to shake that fantastic aft of yours, hot stuff.”

“Dancing is one thing I’m especially good at,” Hot Rod says with a wink. He spreads his arms. “Come on, my mechs. We can all be stiff and angry tomorrow. Let’s dance tonight.”

“Some of us have dignity,” Starscream sniffs, sipping from his energon with his chin lifted. He can’t hide the rhythmic twitches of his wings, however.

Hot Rod twists his frame, wriggling and rocking to the beat, in Starscream’s direction. “That’s what mechs who can’t dance say.” He waggles his orbital ridges.

“You’re ridiculous,” Starscream says, but amusement glitters in his optics rather than offense. “Go entice someone else, kid.”

“You’re no fun at all.” Hot Rod tries to pout, but the joy in his field betrays him. He sweeps a hopeful gaze over the table, and Optimus makes himself very busy.

It doesn’t work.

“Come on, Optimus,” Hot Rod says, draping himself along Optimus’ left side. He’s already running hot, the thrum of his engine vibrating over Optimus’ armor. “Dance with me?”

Hot Rod smiles up at him, pleading and hopeful, and Optimus’ resolve crumbles like a handful of ruststicks. “Very well,” he says, and the blinding grin Hot Rod bestows on him makes his concession worth the inevitable embarrassment.

He lets Hot Rod pull him from his chair, away from the table, into a clearer patch of floor. Orion Pax had not been much of a dancer, and the Matrix had not bestowed upon Optimus the means to dance either. He lets Hot Rod take the lead, moving awkwardly with the much more graceful speedster, and tries to ignore the optics watching them.

“Alright, Ironhide, get your rusty aft up.” Ratchet’s voice rises from behind them, and Optimus glances over his shoulder to see Ironhide being mechhandled to his feet. “If you can dance half as good as you move on the training pitch, we’ll be just fine.”

“Ya coulda asked,” Ironhide grumbles, but he eyes Ratchet as if sizing up a challenge. “Though guess we’re just going to have to see if you creak and rattle through the whole song.”

Ratchet smirks. “Put your groove where your mouth is, rustbucket.”

Ironhide barks a laugh, and now Optimus and Hot Rod aren’t the only ones dancing to Jazz’s music, a lively tune Optimus recognizes. Jazz himself is dancing, impressive footwork in and around the trays on the table, never missing a beat, without looking at his feet.

“Bet I can convince Prowl to dance,” Hot Rod says as he whirls around Optimus, his hands a fluttery flirt over Optimus’ armor. “What do you think?”

“I think it is worth a try,” Optimus says.

Hot Rod laughs and abandons Optimus on the dance floor, beelining straight for Prowl, who appears to be ignoring the fun and games by burying his nose in a datapad. Left alone, Optimus sets his sights on the one mech he knows won’t turn him down.

“You said you’d be by my side for whatever I needed, remember?” Optimus says as he rests a hand on Ultra Magnus’ shoulder, leaning in to murmur by his audial. “Come dance with me.”

Ultra Magnus looks up at him with something akin to panic in his optics. “Optimus, I don’t think--”

“Dancing does not require thinking,” Optimus teases, and pulls Ultra Magnus to his feet, something he never could have done before acquiring his new frame. “Consider it a great bonding moment.”

A gusty sigh whuffs from Ultra Magnus’ vents. “I am ever in your service, my Prime,” he says, and lets Optimus tow him onto the dance floor.

Hot Rod, too, is successful, and now there are at least six of them vying for room in the limited space, enjoying the rhythmic beats with various levels of skill. Jazz leaps down from the table, inserting himself into the middle of the dancing duos, somehow keeping the rhythm as he moves around them, making himself the center of the fun.

Ironhide and Ratchet convince Sunstreaker to stop sulking. Between him and Ironhide, it is less of a dance, and more of a series of martial kata, but it matches the music in such a way it appears to be dancing. Optimus admires their creativity.

Ratchet dances as though he was sparked to do so, and perhaps rumors of his wilder, youthful years are true. Optimus doesn’t hold much stock in gossip, but he has found some interesting pictures buried in the archives, along with fascinating datatract articles. Perhaps when he and Ratchet are closer friends, he could even tease Ratchet about them.

When Hot Rod eventually bounces over to steal Ultra Magnus, Optimus takes the opportunity to escape back to the table. Only Soundwave and Starscream had remained, but the former is gone, and the latter sits watching them, optics half-shuttered as though taking the measure of everyone joining the festivities.

His glass is empty.

Optimus knows an opening when he sees one. He snags a decanter of Starscream’s preferred flavor, plus a tray of Starscream’s favored treats, currently out of reach of the Seeker. He takes both to Starscream, sliding into the chair recently abandoned by Soundwave.

Red optics watch him approach, glittering as if examining Optimus down to his struts. “You’re not going to convince me to dance,” Starscream says.

Optimus rests the tray down in front of him and gestures with the decanter. “Refill?”

“Since you’re offering.” Starscream lifts the empty glass, and holds Optimus’ gaze as he carefully fills it. “Though I wonder what it’s going to cost me.”

“If you want me to leave you alone, you need only say so.” Optimus sets the decanter on the table and nudges the treats a little closer. He’d noticed Starscream’s predilection for the sweeter things, and he doesn’t miss the hungry glance Starscream gives the tray.

He doesn’t take one, however. Perhaps he thinks it would betray a weakness.

“We might as well get this over with. At least the others won’t be paying us too much attention.” Starscream sips his engex, looking at Optimus over the rim of it. “I’ve heard your spiel already. What do you think you can add to it?”

Optimus cycles a ventilation. “I am aware of the circumstances behind your nomination.”

“Who isn’t?” Starscream’s lip curls with derision. “They weren’t quiet about it.” His wingtips flick as he snorts. “They think shoving me into your harem will shut me up.”

“It is foolish of them to assume so,” Optimus says, and when Starscream cocks his head, he adds, “There is nothing I would like more than to hear what it is you have to say, Starscream. You are brilliant and innovative, and were this a different Cybertron, it would be I begging for a moment of your time.”

Starscream’s optics gleam brighter. He sets the engex down and picks up one of the treats, rust flakes flecking down. “Is that right?” he asks. “For a librarian, you already have the diplomacy down. Does that come standard with the Matrix?”

“I have done my fair share of reading,” Optimus says. “The Matrix, I have discovered, is rather useless when it comes to sharing useful information.”

“Pity.” Starscream pops the treat into his mouth, glossa flicking over his lips, still holding Optimus’ gaze as though he considers it a challenge. “So tell me how an archivist ends up holding the planet’s most revered holy artifact.”

Optimus spreads his hands. “That I cannot answer. I was as surprised as anyone when I was chosen. I do not understand how I crossed their radar.”

Though he has his suspicions. He has not had the opportunity to explore them, but he does think that the same mech responsible for ensuring Ultra Magnus’ nomination to the cohort is the very same mech who put Orion Pax in the path of the priests seeking the new Prime. Granted, only Primus could have decided the Matrix would respond to Orion Pax, but still…

Optimus has many questions for Senator Shockwave.

“Do you think it was by chance?”

Optimus shakes his head. “No. Nor do I think it was fate.”

Starscream rests his knuckles on his chin, his elbow braced on the table. “You don’t believe in destiny?”

“Do you?”

“Frag, no.” Starscream snorts, and his grin broadens. “It just surprises me that you don’t considering that thing.” He flicks a finger toward Optimus’ chassis. “After all, aren’t Primes supposed to be written in some prophecy or another?”

“I suppose that depends on what you believe.” Optimus plucks one of the treats from a nearby tray and considers it. “I do not want to replicate the errors of my predecessors, and if prophecies are to be believed, that is all of which a Prime is capable.”

“Hmm.” Starscream sips at his engex again, staring into the glowing liquid as he says, “What do you want from me then, Prime?”

For a moment, Optimus watches the dancers.

Hot Rod laughs as he twirls around a flustered Ultra Magnus, a near-unmovable mass in the middle of the chaos. Prowl has coaxed Ratchet into a more formal dance, something Optimus vaguely recognizes as Praxian in origin. Sunstreaker and Ironhide are still in the midst of their modified dance-kata. The atmosphere is light. Joyous.

Much improved.

“I seek allies,” Optimus says. “I seek friends. I seek to make the best of a complicated situation, and I hope to unite the disparate minds the Senate thrust together, hoping to keep me so distracted I will not notice the ways they are further tearing our planet apart.”

“Lofty goals,” Starscream murmurs.

Optimus looks at him. “Yes. There is much I wish to accomplish, and I know I need you by my side to ensure I can meet those goals.”

Starscream leans back, languid and relaxed save for the calculating sheen in his optics. “Convince me.”

“Tell me how,” Optimus says.

“Words aren’t going to do it, I can tell you that much.” Starscream salutes him with the engex and empties the glass, turning to place it upside-down on the table. “But if you’re half as smart as I think you are, I’ll bet you can figure it out.”

Starscream, he thinks, will at least be simpler to understand than Jazz.

Optimus cycles a slow ventilation. “There is another reason I came to speak with you,” he says, and waits until he has Starscream’s full attention before he continues, “Skyfire is due to arrive in the morning. Is there something I can do to mitigate the potential… friction?”

“Ahh, there’s that diplomacy again.” Starscream’s armor ripples, tightening around his frame. “It won’t be a problem, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m not an idiot.”

“If I could--”

“Do what? Keep us apart? What’s that going to solve?” Starscream sighs, and his engine changes pitch. “We’re both adults. We can figure it out. It’s not like we have any choice in this game, is it?”

It is partially true. Because if there had been a choice, one or both of them could have refused the Consort nomination.

“We have a choice in how we decide to handle it,” Optimus says, words chosen carefully, as diplomatic as Starscream accuses.

Starscream tips his head, contemplating, dragging the tip of one finger across his bottom lip. “You act like Skyfire and I used to be lovers. It wasn’t like that.”

“Friendship is no less intimate than romance,” Optimus says. “You two may not have ever shared a berth, but that does not mean your feelings are any less valid.”

Starscream’s optics widen by a fraction, and he barks out a laugh, burying his hand behind his face, only a hint of fang visible. “You sound just like him, you know.”

“How so?”

Starscream’s hand drops, and now there’s a sadness in his optics. “He used to say he wasn’t in love with me, that he didn’t want a place in my berth, but that didn’t mean he loved me any less.”

“Perhaps he loves you still,” Optimus says gently.

Starscream scoffs, but he doesn’t refute Optimus’ words. Instead, he rests his chin on his knuckles and gives Optimus a contemplative look. “Fine,” he says. “I suppose that’s enough to earn you a chance.”

“Beg pardon?” Optimus asks.

Starscream huffs a little laugh. “I’m not going to give in to Hot Rod’s blatant attempts to promote you, but I’m also not going to play into the Senate’s hands. Or the Winglord’s for that matter.”

Optimus arches an orbital ridge. “Which means…?”

“They gave me to you because they expected me to cause problems. Won’t they look foolish when I form an alliance with you instead?” He chuckles again, and there’s chaos in his optics, a bit of vicious glee in the curve of his smile.

There are worse reasons than spite to inspire the start of a working relationship. Optimus will take what he can get. So long as Starscream’s ire is pointed at the Senate and their games, Optimus considers himself to have a powerful ally.

“They will indeed,” Optimus agrees.

“Exactly.” Starscream reaches across the table and snags the decanter of engex, refilling his own glass. “But don’t think that means I’m going to keep my mouth shut if you do something stupid or cruel.”

“I sincerely hope you do not,” Optimus says.

Starscream grins and dives back into the tray of treats.

It feels like victory.

Optimus glances back to the others, realizing that the music has softened to something more soothing rather than dance-worthy. Ratchet and Ironhide have gone -- he must have missed their departure. Ultra Magnus catches Optimus’ gaze -- a somewhat drunk Hot Rod slung over his shoulder.

“I’ll put this one to berth,” he says.

Hot Rod grins and pats Ultra Magnus’ back. “You could stay in it with me if you want.”

Ultra Magnus sighs. “No, thank you. I prefer my berthpartners fully sober.”

“I’m sober,” Hot Rod says brightly. “Enough, I mean.”

“Recharge well,” Optimus says before they vanish out the door, and the rumble of Ultra Magnus’ polite refusal of Hot Rod’s adorable overture floats back toward them.

Starscream, too, excuses himself, leaving only Prowl and Sunstreaker left to enjoy the music, Prowl rather patiently walking Sunstreaker through the complicated steps of a traditional Praxian dance. Optimus isn’t surprised that Sunstreaker is catching on quickly. Praxian dances are not unlike martial kata.

Optimus allows himself another drink -- a weak spritzer this time -- as the servants quietly bustle in to clear the table, and Jazz finishes up the last song with a musical flourish. Prowl thanks him, and Sunstreaker must echo the sentiment before they walk away, heads bent together in quiet discussion. Optimus catches the mention of more dancing lessons as he tips his head at them in farewell.

The quiet lingers. Jazz returns to the table, pulling a case from beneath it and placing the nyckelharpa into the lined interior with care.

“Thank you for the performance,” Optimus says as he nudges a glass of chilled energon toward Jazz. “I am sure everyone appreciated it.”

“I can tell.” Jazz eyes the glass before he sweeps it up and drains half in one go, licking his lips with a satisfied vent. “It’s nice to play like that. Been awhile since I could let my spark do the dancing.”

There’s a glimmer in his visor then, so brief Optimus almost misses it, but there’s so much longing, so much regret, it’s consuming. Then it’s gone again, and Jazz’s curved smirk is back.

“You are exceptionally talented. Were most of those songs original creations?” Optimus asks.

Jazz reaches his arms over his head, threading his fingers together, arching his spinal strut in a languid stretch that causes cables to pop and squeak. “Yep,” he says. “Most mechs only wanna hear remixes of old favorites, so it was nice to indulge in my own compositions for once. I’m gonna miss that.”

Optimus tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

Jazz gives him a long look. “I’m a Prime-Consort. I can’t just wander off whenever and wherever I like. That part of my life is gone now.”

“I would not impose such restrictions on you,” Optimus says.

Jazz rubs the palm of his right hand with his left thumb. “And it ain’t up to you, is it? Besides, what Prime would want his Consort out of reach?” He rolls his shoulders, and gives Optimus a laconic grin. “Not that I can blame you, I’m pretty hot stuff.”

Optimus frowns. “That is not what I want from you.”

“Right, right. Your whole trying to change the world thing.” Jazz waves a hand and downs the rest of his chilled energon. “I gotta admit, it sounds pretty damn good. If you can actually pull it off.”

“I would be more successful with you as an ally,” Optimus says.

Jazz grins and slinks around the table, fingertips of one hand lightly dragging along the surface. “What makes ya think I’m not?” he asks, his field tapping against Optimus’, warm and sultry. “I’m all for what you want. I’m behind you one-hundred percent, Prime. I don’t think you can find anyone else more in your corner. Except mebbe Hot Rod, but that kid runs volcanic.”

Optimus chuckles. “Yes. His enthusiasm is quite refreshing, I must admit.” He shifts to face Jazz. “I appreciate your support, but I hope you understand that the freedom to explore your music is not contingent upon it. I would never try to keep you from your craft.”

“You really don’t have to be so formal. We’re friends now.” Jazz rests a hip against the table, leaning in toward Optimus, warmth emanating from his frame and his field an inviting murmur. “You did say we could call you Optimus.”

“Indeed I did.” Optimus works his intake, suddenly intensely aware of Jazz, and the raw attractiveness surrounding him. He feels more than a bit like the metallocanary stalked by a voltaic cat.

He coughs into his palm and rises from the table, gently sweeping up Jazz’s free hand as chastely as he can manage.

“You will have to excuse me, Jazz. It is late, and I had an early morning collecting dents from Ironhide,” Optimus demurs as he brushes a gentle kiss over Jazz’s knuckles. “Thank you again for the lovely performance. I do hope it will not be the last.”

“I’m sure it won’t.” Jazz grins as Optimus lets his hand slip free, looking up at Optimus, head tilted, coy and inviting. “You’re sure you don’t want company?”

“Not tonight, though I thank you for the offer.” Optimus gives Jazz a gentle smile and eases out of reach of both Jazz’s field and his hands. “Recharge well, Jazz.”

“You too, Optimus.”

He makes his escape, only he doesn’t call it such, and leaves the gathering hall, more than a little flustered. Jazz has that effect on him, which he supposes had been Jazz’s intentions. Despite Jazz insisting he wants the same things, Optimus doesn’t trust Jazz’s words.

It rings false in a way Optimus can’t put his finger on, only that when he compares Jazz’s flirtations to Hot Rod’s, there is a distinct difference. Hot Rod is youthful, naive, but clearly, enthusiastically, interested. Jazz approaches Optimus like a courtesan might, knowing his flirtations are a duty, and acting out a script he’s long since memorized.

Unlike with Hot Rod, Optimus doesn’t feel tempted for a moment. For all that Jazz is saying yes and implying yes with his behavior, there’s something in his gaze which radiates ‘no.’

It’s unsettling.

He’s no closer to getting through to Jazz than before, and Optimus is at a loss as to how to change that. How does he get past the mask? He supposes it’s not something that can be done in a few conversations. Jazz is a longstanding project, where Optimus can only prove himself through his actions, and hope that eventually, an understanding can be reached. A true understanding.

He is not opposed to the amount of work involved, but it does rather complicate things. It will be a tricky balance, to refuse Jazz’s advances without refusing Jazz, and ensuring Jazz does not feel slighted or out of favor compared to the rest of the Consorts.

Ah, it’s a headache.

Optimus returns to his private suite, and debates the merit of a long soak before he collapses on his berth instead. He fears slipping into recharge in the bath, and he can’t risk it.

He sets his alarm a bit earlier instead. Skyfire is due to arrive in the morning, even earlier than Optimus’ now-standing training date with Ironhide, and Optimus wants to greet him in person. Ultra Magnus has also expressed an interest in accompanying Optimus.

His second in all things, Optimus muses. He is still of the opinion Ultra Magnus would be more effective and happier in another role, but it’s not his place to put such assumptions on Magnus either.

This, after all, is Ultra Magnus’ choice.

Recharge comes fitfully, the Matrix continuously stirring within his chassis, as though roused by the day’s events and Optimus’ own circuitous thoughts. He doesn’t dream, but he feels as though he ought to have, and he onlines to his alarm, groggy and thoughts stuffed with mesh. He opts for a rinse in the washrack before he hurries to the helipad where Ultra Magnus already waits, optics bright and armor perfectly polished.

“You look tired,” Ultra Magnus observes before he produces a cube of energon from nowhere and hands it to Optimus.

“I suspect that will be a recurring theme,” Optimus sighs, giving Ultra Magnus a grateful smile. “Though this time the Matrix was to blame. It was unexpectedly… energetic.”

“Hmm.” Ultra Magnus frowns. “Approving?”

“I can only hope.” Optimus sips his energon and lifts his gaze to the sky, watching for Skyfire’s arrival. “I’ve spoken with everyone but Soundwave, and I am optimistic they’ll be won to my side.”

“All of them?”

Optimus cycles a ventilation. “Jazz is vocally approving, but I do not trust it. I don’t think his support is genuine.”

“We have time. Perhaps we can get through to him before our return to Iacon. I’ll do what I can on my end,” Ultra Magnus says.

A dark speck on the horizon grows closer as Optimus receives an alert ping.

“I appreciate it.” Optimus finishes off the energon and crushes the empty, letting the energy disperse into the air. “We’ll talk more later.”

“Of course.”

A non-sentient transport sets down a few minutes later. A large shuttle disembarks, his white armor streaked with dust, his shoulders slumping from fatigue, pulling a crate behind him, the wheels creaking and the underside dripping dust. He looks in need of a decanter of engex and a long soak in the oilsprings, not a heavy discussion about political ramifications and Optimus’ intentions.

He’ll have to speak with Skyfire about such things later. For now, greeting him is more important.

“Welcome to our temporary home, Skyfire,” Optimus says warmly. “I hope your journey was without trouble.”

Skyfire smiles, though his optics are dim with fatigue, and offers Optimus a hand. “For all that it was hurried and a bit of a surprise, yes. We didn’t run into any trouble.”

“Here, allow me to help you with that.” Ultra Magnus deftly slides the wheeled crate from Skyfire’s hand without waiting for an answer. “I am Ultra Magnus, by the way. Once you’ve rested, we’ll introduce you to the others.”

“I could use a stasis nap,” Skyfire admits, his field openly leaking fatigue. “They didn’t give me much time between the notification and my departure.”

Optimus winces. “I apologize for that.”

“Why? You and I both know it wasn’t your decision,” Skyfire says. He falls in step beside Optimus, with Ultra Magnus on his other side. “I still don’t understand why I was chosen. I have nothing to offer a Prime.”

“The Senate would argue otherwise,” Ultra Magnus says.

Skyfire sighs, his shoulder slumping. “Somehow, I don’t think my scientific acumen is what they are hoping to exploit.”

Neither does Optimus. No, he suspects Skyfire’s presence here is solely because of the anticipated trouble it will cause with Starscream. Optimus’ Consorts aren’t meant to be his supports, after all, they’re meant to be his distractions.

“Maybe the Senate does not, but I would be personally delighted to hear anything you wish to share about your research. I find it fascinating,” Optimus says.

Skyfire’s orbital ridges lift. “You do?”

“Obtaining the Matrix has not lessened his thirst for knowledge.” Ultra Magnus’ voice is thick with affectionate amusement. “He was an archivist.”

“Oh.” Understanding ripples in Skyfire’s field. “I see. Perhaps we will have much to talk about after all.”

“Once you have rested,” Optimus says as they step into the manor, heading toward the largest habsuite. He’s ensured Skyfire is at a distance from Starscream, to avoid awkward encounters before either of them are ready for it. “You have private quarters and a private washrack. There is an energon dispenser in your room as well. Feel free to take all the time you need.”

“I’m not expected anywhere?”

Optimus shakes his head. “No. You can spend your time here as you wish, though the powers that be might argue your presence is required for our evening refuel.” He offers Skyfire a gentle smile. “I would like it if you joined us, but I would not insist.”

“It will be a good opportunity to meet everyone,” Ultra Magnus adds as they arrive at Skyfire’s habsuite, where he keys it open before offering Skyfire a datachip with the door code. “Last night, we were even treated to a performance.”

“Everyone,” Skyfire echoes, and his expression darkens. He retrieves his crate from Ultra Magnus and lingers in the doorway, looking down at them. “Starscream is here then, I presume?”

“Yes. His room is on the other side of the manor.” Optimus privately marvels that has at least one Consort over whom he will not accidentally loom. “He will likely be present tonight if that at all influences your decision to join us.”

Skyfire draws in a deep vent, his free hand rubbing his orbital ridge, a few flakes of grit fluttering to the floor. “I can’t avoid him forever. I’ll be at the gathering.”

“The choice is yours,” Optimus says gently. “I will not think less of you if you choose to take your time with it.”

“Thank you.” Skyfire pauses as if he’s going to say something else before he steps back into his habsuite, and the door slides shut.

Ultra Magnus rolls his shoulders with a quiet sigh. “That went better than I expected. Clearly, he’s the level-headed one of the bunch.”

“More likely he is not one prone to confrontation. He’s a scientist, not an Enforcer or a warrior or a former field medic.” Optimus turns away from Skyfire’s door, aiming toward the training grounds where Ironhide is no doubt waiting for him. “He’s practical.”

“Thank Primus for that.”

Optimus hums agreeably. “Indeed.” He pats Ultra Magnus on the shoulder. “I appreciate the back-up, but I’m sure you have other plots in mind.”

“I had considered cornering Prowl.” There’s an impish curve to Magnus’ lips, a streak of playfulness Optimus knows few are allowed to see. “Perhaps between the two of us, we can figure out a means of approach for Jazz.”

“A worthy endeavor. Don’t let me keep you.”

“Try not to collect too many dents.”

They part ways, Ultra Magnus in search of Prowl, Optimus to his punishment at Ironhide’s hands. He’s not even late, but Ironhide is already waiting, looking far too eager in Optimus’ opinion.

“Round two,” Ironhide says with a playful grin.

Optimus sighs.

He’s never happier to see Sunstreaker than when the golden mech shows up an hour later, perfectly polished and lugging a case full of assorted hand-to-hand weaponry. He must have brought it with him, which begs the question of why? Did he think himself in that much danger or is it merely a habit?

“How about a rematch?” Sunstreaker asks, challenge gleaming in his optics, and Ironhide returns it with an expectant grin of glee.

“You can escape now, Optimus,” Ironhide drawls, rolling his shoulders, cracking struts in his neck and upper back with anticipation. “Looks like a youngling needs to be taught respect for his elders.”

Optimus doesn’t argue. He flees the scene, looking back only once to see Sunstreaker and Ironhide debating the merits of various weaponry. It will undoubtedly turn to physical attempts to prove the domination of one weapon over the other.

At least they seem to be getting along.

It’s the perfect opportunity to seek out Soundwave, after a quick rinse in the washracks at any rate. Optimus is sore, replete with dents, and when no one’s watching, he lets himself limp. His right ankle throbs from a too-quick twist, and while Ironhide had proclaimed him undamaged, it still aches.

He resolves to avoid Ratchet, lest the medic demand he needs berthrest. There is far too much to do to spend his time in his berth.

Finding Soundwave, however, is no easy task. Optimus is not familiar enough with the mech to be able to divine where Soundwave might spend his free time.

He passes Ratchet and Ultra Magnus in the small, but fully-stocked on-site clinic, and tiptoes past the door so as not to be noticed by either of them. It seems Ultra Magnus had either finished his conversation with Prowl, or had been spotted by Ratchet and subsequently caught.

“--was the last time you had a full maintenance?” Ratchet gripes, his voice carrying easily into the hall. “Whoever did it is an inept moron. There’s grit in your secondary homokinetic joint.”

“My what?”

Optimus moves out of range before he can hear Ratchet’s answer.

Sweet smells and low conversation lure him to the kitchen, but Soundwave is not inside. Instead, Optimus finds Starscream and Hot Rod in the midst of creating something, the countertops dirtied with various ingredients, and the oven humming as a timer counts down.

“I think I’ve got it this time,” Hot Rod says as he whips some concoction in a bowl, and Starscream nudges a pan closer to him.

Amusement curves Starscream’s lips. “It’s too early to tell, kid.”

“No, no. I mean it,” Hot Rod says. “It looks perfectly fluffy and everything. They’re going to be delicious.”

“We’ll see.”

Optimus leaves them to it. He debates for half a second warning Starscream about Skyfire’s arrival, but he’d hate to ruin what is clearly a comfortable moment.

He doesn’t find Jazz, no surprise there, but he does run into Prowl in the library, a neat stack of datanovels within easy reach. Optimus glances at their titles -- Romance novels? Really? -- but keeps his comments to himself.

Prowl looks up at him, amused. “You look a little lost, Optimus.”

“I have been wandering around the manor for the better part of an hour,” Optimus admits. “You have not seen Soundwave by chance, have you?”

Prowl’s attention returns to his novel, finger flicking the screen to move to the next page. “I saw him in the sitting room earlier. He’s probably still there.”

“I will try it next. Thank you, Prowl.”

Amusement flickers in Prowl’s field. “You’re welcome.”

It’s barely an interaction, but Optimus can see a marked difference between now and the first time he had met Prowl, where he’d gotten a frosty reception at best, ice glittering in Prowl’s pale blue optics, and in his field.

He prays their interactions continue to improve.

He sees no sign of Jazz as he makes his way to the sitting room, but he swears he hears voices as he approaches the open door. Perhaps Jazz is with Soundwave? He can’t pick out actual words, just the cadence of conversation. There is also music playing, further muffling the voices and their words.

However, he sees no one but Soundwave when he steps inside. The music itself is absent of lyrics, and Soundwave is alone where he sits on one of the lounges, a datapad in hand. Optimus cycles his optics, confused, and a quick glance around the room confirms that Soundwave has no company. There’s nowhere for another mech to hide either.

Odd.

“Prime,” Soundwave intones, greeting him with a sharp inclination of his head.

“Good morning, Soundwave. Do you have a moment to talk?” Optimus asks. He glances around the room once more, but it remains empty of others. Had he imagined the voices? Maybe they’d come from further down the hall.

The music lowers in volume, barely audible, and Soundwave sets the datapad aside. He gestures to an empty chair. “Time available,” he says.

Optimus sits. “I apologize for not approaching you sooner,” he says, rather than addressing the voices he may or may not have heard. Perhaps Soundwave is the sort to talk to himself. Optimus has known his fair share of mechs with the habit including himself. “If you are amenable, I would like to discuss our rather unique situation.”

Soundwave nods. “Acceptable.” He rests his hands in his lap, fingers laced together. “Terms?”

“Would it be more comfortable for you if I discussed this as though it were a business arrangement?” Optimus asks. He’s not sure if he’ll ever get used to Soundwave’s rather terse way of speaking. The vocal modulator is an interesting choice as well.

It’s difficult to divine what Soundwave is thinking with only his frame language to rely on. Mask and visor both work very well to hide Soundwave from the rest of the world. His field is difficult to parse as well, as if it works on different harmonics than other Cybertronians. Even the Matrix struggles to make sense of it.

“Affirmative,” Soundwave says. “Contract terms defined and clear. No misunderstanding.”

“Fair point.” Optimus contemplates, reorganizing his thoughts. “I do not expect anything from any one of my Consorts, though I would appreciate it if no one actively tried to work against me. I will not interfere in the private affairs of my Consorts either. You are free to do whatever you wish within the established guidelines set by a governing office I do not control.”

Optimus can say whatever he wants, but they all know, his position as Prime has been reduced to figurehead over the centuries. He holds enormous sway with the populace, with those devoted to the tradition of the Prime, and the legacy of the Matrix. But when it comes to those who actually have the power to effect change? The Prime is leashed.

Soundwave nods sharply. “Agreed,” he intones. “Allyship offered. Privacy sought.” He pauses as if he intends to say something else before lapsing into silence.

“Of course. Everyone will have their own private rooms, and I will not pry into your affairs,” Optimus says. “I have much I wish to accomplish. I will be more successful with the aid of my Consorts and the unique knowledge and experience each of them possesses. If there is anything I can do to make these unfortunate circumstances better, you need only ask.”

“Understood.” Soundwave cycles a ventilation, something in his field flickering before it smooths out and he says, “Service wished, nothing more.”

Optimus barely keeps his frown away. “You do understand you can refuse anything I ask of you, yes? I do not want you to fear saying ‘no’.”

“Affirmative.” Soundwave shifts, his visor brightening by a few degrees, and there’s a quiet click before he softly adds, “I only wish to serve.”

Soundwave’s file suggests he’s here voluntarily. But then, so does Sunstreaker’s, and so does Jazz’s. Optimus knows now that the latter two are carefully constructed lies. Sunstreaker must appear to be willing because of Sideswipe. Jazz has ulterior motives as well.

Hot Rod and Ultra Magnus are the only two Optimus can be reasonably certain are here fully by choice, rather than forced necessity. Refusing a Prime Consort nomination, after all, is not done. It’s meant to be a great honor that no sane mech would refuse, and never in history has a mech refused the nomination.

Or there’s simply no record of it. Primes hold enormous power, Senate or not, and Optimus can think of a few past Primes who would have no problem forcing a mech into their cohort out of a perverse want. Or ridding themselves of a mech who dared refuse them to avoid the potential embarrassment.

“If service is what makes you happy, then I will not protest,” Optimus says, drawing upon every book on legislature and legal matters he’s ever skimmed. Their conversation feels like a binding agreement, and he doesn’t like the sensation of it. “Only know that it is not required of you.”

Soundwave makes a non-committal noise. “Requirement subjective.”

Optimus does not like the sound of that. “I understand,” he says, and plants a light smile on his face. “Still, do not hesitate to speak with me if there is anything you need. I will do my best to accommodate you.” He stands to excuse himself, unsure how to reach Soundwave. “I will leave you to your datapad.”

“Appreciated.”

Optimus leaves.

Behind him, the music rises in volume once again, but it still has no lyrics, and Optimus does not pick up any voices, even when he lingers outside the study, audials tuned specifically for conversation.

He must not have heard anything after all.

***


	5. Chapter 5

Ultra Magnus is no longer in the medclinic by the time Optimus returns to it, but Ratchet is still present. The counters and tables are covered by medical supplies as though Ratchet’s emptied out every drawer and cabinet in the entire clinic.  
  
“I went to replace one of Ultra Magnus’ filters and couldn’t find it. This place is a mess. There’s no organization to it at all,” Ratchet grumbles in answer to Optimus’ unvoiced question. “Thank Primus we’re only here for a month.”  
  
“Feel free to take over. I cannot think of a single person who would complain,” Optimus says as he surveys the mess. He debates offering to help, but he suspects this is an outlet for Ratchet.  
  
“They can complain all they want, but this is going to be organized and useful by the time I’m through,” Ratchet says with a snort. He eyes Optimus. “Were you looking for me or…?”  
  
“Ultra Magnus actually, but now that I am here, I do have a request.”  
  
Ratchet drags his hands free from where they’d been digging in a crate and rests his fingers on the edge of it. “I’m listening.”  
  
“It is nothing so serious, only Skyfire has just arrived and he looks as though they have dragged him here straight from an asteroid. I do not think a check-up would be out of order.”  
  
“Oh, this is going to be interesting,” Ratchet says with a snort. He pulls something out of the crate and rests it on the counter. “Does Starscream know?”  
  
Optimus tilts his head. “I take it you are familiar with their history?”  
  
“Most of us are. It’s a messy one.” Ratchet shakes his head, his orbital ridge wrinkling. “I’m sure the political entanglements don’t make it any cleaner.”  
  
“Being forced into proximity will not make it easier either.” Optimus cycles a ventilation. “I am on my way to tell Starscream now, if he is not otherwise occupied. I only wanted to see if you would look in on Skyfire first.”  
  
Ratchet pulls out a bundle of carefully tied cabling, adding it to another stack. “And get an idea of his mental state while I’m at it?”  
  
“If it is medically relevant,” Optimus says. “I do not intend for you to spy on him, or help me manipulate him. I simply want to make this easier for both of them.”  
  
“Huh. Pretty sure you actually mean that.” Ratchet lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “Sure. I’ll finish up here, and then go check on Skyfire. Might do him some good to see a friendly face that’s not yours.”  
  
“I appreciate it,” Optimus says. “And thank you, by the way, for attending to Ultra Magnus’ maintenance. He has a bad habit of neglecting himself when he thinks his other duties are more important.”  
  
Ratchet waves him off. “Taking care of mechs is what I do. Anytime.” He grabs the crate and sets it on the ground before lifting another in its place. “Now you better go before I rope you into taking inventory for me.”  
  
Optimus obeys, pleased Ratchet is open enough with him to tease. It’s great progress. Perhaps a true friendship can be born here after all.  
  
He returns to the kitchens, where he’d last seen Starscream, a tantalizing scent on the air, far thicker and richer than it had been before. Hot Rod’s laughter floats out into the hall, and rather than peek around the corner, Optimus strides directly inside, wondering if perhaps they need a taste-tester.  
  
There’s a batch of energon goodies on the counter, steam curling around their plump shapes, the sparkle of various metal shavings giving hint to their flavor. Starscream stands at the oven, peering in at another tray of baking goodies while Hot Rod carries an armful of dirtied bakeware to the sink. He lights up when he sees Optimus, his spoiler giving a delighted wiggle.  
  
“Optimus!” Hot Rod grins. “Just in time. You get to be my first volunteer.”  
  
“I think he means victim,” Starscream drawls, tossing the tease over his shoulder. “I hope your tank is made of stern materials, Prime.”  
  
“Don’t listen to him. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” Hot Rod dumps the bakeware into the sink with a clatter. “This batch is perfect.”  
  
“This time,” Starscream corrects. “Or so he thinks.”  
  
“So I know!” Hot Rod argues with an adorable pout. He scoops up one of the treats and bounds up to Optimus, holding it out. “Here. Try this. I swear it’s good.”  
  
Optimus’ spark pulses warm with affection. He thinks he might be a little head over heels for Hot Rod already. “I am happy to volunteer,” he says, and takes the treat -- sprinkled with magnesium if he’s not mistaken -- popping it into his mouth.  
  
Flavor explodes over his glossa, the magnesium crackling in his oral lubricants, before the thin membrane pops and sweet energon floods his mouth. It’s rich, with a bit of a crackle to it, like low-caliber engex. There’s a delightful sweet-sour tang to it as well.  
  
Hot Rod looks up at him, simultaneously wary and hopeful.  
  
“It is delicious, Hot Rod,” Optimus says as the flavor lingers, and he eyes the trays of treats, wondering if it would be too forward to request a few more. “Thank you.”  
  
Hot Rod beams. “Let me get you a sample of all the flavors. You can tell me which one is the best.”  
  
“Flavor preference is a matter of taste, kid,” Starscream says as the oven dings. He dons a pair of gloves and removes another tray, resting it on a cooling platform.  
  
“Duh.” Hot Rod rolls his optics and selects a few treats from the cooled tray -- one from every different flavor. “That’s why the second tray is for dinner tonight. I want to see what everyone else thinks. Experiments require large data-sets, right?”  
  
Starscream’s lips curve with amusement. “At least you were paying attention.”  
  
Hot Rod shrugs. “It was interesting. I don’t want to be a scientist all the way, but yeah. It was interesting.” He offers the tray to Optimus. “Try the blue ones.”  
  
“I will try them all,” Optimus promises, and he does select the blue one, sprinkled with selenium he thinks. It sparkles in the overhead light.  
  
Starscream lingers nearby, hips cocked against the counter, arms folded over his cockpit. “There was a transport earlier,” he says as Optimus tastes the blue treat and finds it has an odd cooling sensation that makes it no less delicious. “Can I assume Skyfire is here?”  
  
Optimus chews and swallows. “Yes. He is resting at the moment. They must have retrieved him straight from a research site.” He dusts off his hands with an offered washcloth. “He is down the hall from Soundwave if you wish to speak with him.”  
  
“Is he coming to dinner tonight?” Hot Rod asks, trying to urge an orange-drizzled treat toward Optimus. “I want to meet him.”  
  
“If he is not too tired, I do think he plans to join us,” Optimus says.  
  
“Why do you want to meet him?” Starscream asks.  
  
Hot Rod shrugs. “Because he’s the only Consort I haven’t met yet? And he’s a big shuttle. And he’s gone to a bunch of different planets?”  
  
“All good reasons,” Optimus says.  
  
“Mm.” Starscream makes a non-committal noise before he plucks the plate from Hot Rod’s hands and turns to set it on the counter. “I’ll finish up the treats, Hot Rod. Why don’t you go find something else to do?”  
  
Hot Rod’s optics narrow. “If you wanted to talk to Optimus privately, you only had to say.”  
  
Starscream rolls his optics. “Fine. I want to have a private conversation, so please go find somewhere else to be.”  
  
“Fine, I will.” Hot Rod huffs, but it’s playful at least. “I’m going to go find Jazz and see if he’ll race me. Someone around here has to have some speed other than me.”  
  
“Good luck,” Optimus says. “Jazz is notoriously difficult to find.”  
  
“I’ve got a good instinct for this kind of thing.” Hot Rod winks and rises on the tips of his feet to press a kiss to Optimus’ cheek. “Let me know if you like the other flavors, okay?”  
  
“I promise.” Hot Rod grins up at him, adorable and genuine, before he’s gone, leaving Starscream and Optimus alone in the kitchen.  
  
Starscream becomes very busy removing the treats from the tray and shifting them to a cooling rack.  
  
“I do not know the full extent of what happened between you and Skyfire, only rumor and official accounts,” Optimus says when it becomes clear Starscream has no intention of starting their conversation. “This must be difficult for you.”  
  
“To a degree you couldn’t begin to fathom, Prime,” Starscream says, his back to Optimus as he starts on the dirtied dishware, the running solvent a quiet rush of noise. “Though Skyfire didn’t have a choice in it either.”  
  
Optimus pulls out one of the stools and sits, the plate Hot Rod had prepared for him within reach. “I will not ignore the obvious either. We are both aware that Skyfire’s presence here is a result of the Senate’s machinations. They hope to destabilize my cohort and as a result, undermine my support structure.”  
  
Starscream snorts. “I think you’re giving that pack of power-hungry Empties too much credit.” His wings arch high, betraying his tension. “Or maybe they’re stupid enough to underestimate me. Either way, whatever happens between me and Skyfire will be private and on my own terms. I’m not giving them a show to drool over.”  
  
“If there is anything you need, ask and I will do my best to accommodate you,” Optimus says. “Even if that means I facilitate an appropriate distance between yourself and Skyfire.”  
  
“Thanks, but I can handle it. We need to work things out eventually.” Starscream pauses, his head turning a little as he stares into the distance. “Maybe it’s even for the best that circumstances are forcing us to.”  
  
“Perhaps.” Optimus takes one of the silver-dusted treats, the scent of which is divine. “I know it has only been a short while, but have you given any further thought to what I can do to make this more tolerable for you?”  
  
Starscream turns off the solvent with a squeak and looks over his shoulder. “The things I want I can’t have, and no, I haven’t figured out what I’ll accept as a substitute.”  
  
“Cybertron, as a rule, has been designed to only accommodate the wants of a few,” Optimus says with a sigh. He nibbles on the treat, the sweetness of the silver lingering on his glossa. “I knew this as Orion, but was not in a position to make a difference. I am now, and I intend to do everything I can.”  
  
Starscream leans back against the counter, idly running a cloth over his solvent-damp hands. “Why Prime,” he drawls. “That’s almost treasonous of you to admit. If you’re not careful, the Senate is going to find out you’re too much trouble, and we might all see the shortest Prime tenure in Cybertronian history.”  
  
“I am aware of how carefully I will need to tread,” Optimus admits. “I will have to balance how hard I push, but I also know it will be much easier with allies, specifically intelligent allies who are not afraid to upset the status quo.”  
  
Starscream’s lips curve in a smirk. “Like say, nearly a dozen Consorts who were shoved into your cohort because they were trouble-makers.”  
  
“Exactly.” Optimus manages a small chuckle. “The Senate picked every one of you because you were all intelligent, attractive, and most importantly, prone to mischief. They want us to be so busy bickering we are not paying attention to what is going on, and I especially will be more malleable.”  
  
“I can’t wait to see the looks on their faces when they realize that they’ve pretty much handed you the means to their end.” Starscream barks a laugh. “Honestly, Optimus. That’s all you had to say. You want me to help you make a fool of the Senate?”  
  
“I suppose that would be an unavoidable byproduct,” Optimus admits. “Ultra Magnus being here is an unexpected boon. There’s no one who understands Senate law better. But I intend to rely on you and Prowl to figure out how to circumvent it.”  
  
Starscream’s ailerons flutter, and there’s no disguising the pride in his field. “Well, I am known for getting around a few roadblocks or two.”  
  
“Or more,” Optimus says. “The Senate thinks your only value is in being a nuisance. But I think your intelligence and your pride are your greatest assets.” It’s flattery as much as it is genuine.  
  
Optimus admires Starscream’s strength, his determination, his unwillingness to accept the status quo without a fight. He’s fearless, and he’s brilliant, and if Optimus can make him an ally, there’s very little he thinks he can’t accomplish.  
  
“Well,” Starscream says as he pushes out of his lean, arms unfolding from their defensive posture. “You certainly know how to flatter a mech, and I think you even mean it.” He grins. “I guess we’ll have to see.”  
  
“I look forward to it.”  
  
“I suppose I do, too.” Starscream flicks his hands at Optimus. “Go on then. Find someone else to convince. I have treats to finish.”  
  
Optimus chuckles. “See you at dinner, Starscream.”  
  
He leaves. It’s important to him that his Consorts know they can ask him to leave, or be friendly with him. He wants them to have whatever boundaries they deem are important, so he intends to let them draw the lines.  
  
“Optimus!”  
  
He startles, turning toward the voice as Hot Rod abruptly pounces on his arm, wrapping around it and beaming up at him.  
  
“You’re free now, aren’t you?” Hot Rod asks.  
  
“What happened to finding Jazz?” Optimus asks, amused, as Hot Rod falls in step beside him, still wrapped around his arm, his field warm and suggestive.  
  
Hot Rod rolls his optics. “No one can find him. Ever. I don’t know where he goes or how he’s so good at hiding, but he just disappears.”  
  
“I see,” Optimus says. “So you decided to lie in wait for me instead?”  
  
“I wasn’t eavesdropping!” Hot Rod looks up at him, face set with certainty. “I just wanted to make sure I caught you before you got too far.”  
  
“I believe you.” Optimus pauses near one of the large windows overlooking the garden, flush with newly spawned crystals in a variety of colors. “Did you need something?”  
  
A touch of heat stains Hot Rod’s cheeks. “You have to spark bond with each of us before we go back to Iacon, right?”  
  
“That is correct,” Optimus says as Hot Rod’s field drizzles anticipation and a touch of insecurity against his.  
  
Hot Rod slides a hand down Optimus’ arm until he can tangle their fingers together. “You probably already got your bond with Ultra Magnus, so why don’t we go ahead and get ours out of the way?”  
  
Optimus cycles his optics. “Are you certain?”  
  
Hot Rod barks a laugh, but there’s warmth in it. “Optimus, I think everyone here in the manor knows how much I want you. I’m absolutely sure.” He leans in to Optimus’ warmth. “I mean, unless now isn’t a good time?”  
  
Honestly, Optimus can’t think of a reason to refuse. He has no actual plans before the gathering tonight, and he doesn’t want to engage in more conversations and come across as pushy. Besides, Hot Rod is correct. Optimus has nine more political sparkbonds to complete, and the sooner he can manage them, the better.  
  
Hot Rod’s enthusiastic consent makes it seem less like a trial and more like a pleasure.  
  
So Optimus returns Hot Rod’s warm smile and says, “Would you like to go to my quarters or yours?”  
  
Hot Rod’s joy could have powered the estate for a month.  
  


~

  
  
His bond with Hot Rod settles in quite nicely along the layers of Ultra Magnus already nestled around his spark. Ultra Magnus’ steady influence joins with Hot Rod’s cheerful enthusiasm, and Optimus thinks of both as a balm to the more complicated bonds soon to come.  
  
Optimus had not expected discretion from Hot Rod, so he’s not at all surprised when Hot Rod struts into the dining room like he’d just won the Duryllium Cup at Nova’s Stadium. He’s got a spring in his step, he’s radiating delight, and there’s not a single mech in the room who can’t guess why.  
  
Optimus would be embarrassed, if Hot Rod’s pride and delight hadn’t sung so strongly through their bond. It’s infectious.  
  
“Dare I ask what has him in such a fine mood?” Skyfire asks as he leans in from where he sits next to Optimus, temporarily taking Ultra Magnus’ seat.  
  
Optimus breathes a quiet laugh. “Hot Rod is truly delighted to be here, and equally delighted to seal the agreement between us this afternoon.”  
  
“Ah.” Skyfire’s optics glisten with amusement. “Adorable.”  
  
“Quite.”  
  
Optimus had, after a short stasis nap and a long soak in the oil baths, gone to retrieve Skyfire, wanting to personally escort the shuttle to their nightly gathering. If Starscream’s been by to talk, Skyfire made no mention of it, though he did admit to Ratchet giving him a thorough maintenance check.  
  
Hot Rod slides into the seat on Optimus’ other side and grins. “Hi, Optimus,” he says before he leans over and sticks out a hand toward Skyfire, completely in Optimus' personal space. “You must be Skyfire. I’m Hot Rod. Nice to meet you!”  
  
Delight ripples in Skyfire’s field as he accepts Hot Rod’s hand, nearly dwarfing it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Hot Rod.”  
  
“If you need anything, let me know. I’ll be happy to help,” Hot Rod says, still shaking Skyfire’s hand before he adds in a softer voice, “Also, if you have any embarrassing stories about Starscream, I really want to hear them.”  
  
Optimus winces, but Skyfire merely smiles, a soft haunted smile. “I appreciate the offer, but perhaps Prime would like his personal space back?”  
  
“I would,” Optimus says.  
  
“Oops.” Hot Rod ducks his head, but there’s a gleam of playfulness in his optics. “We’ll catch up later.” He winks and pulls back into his own space.  
  
“I look forward to it,” Skyfire says as more Consorts trickle into the dining hall -- Prowl and Ultra Magnus together, deep in discussion, with Starscream and Sunstreaker trailing behind, the former looking freshly painted and polished.  
  
Skyfire, beside Optimus, goes still, his field nonexistent. Optimus can feel the weight of expectation in the moment, when Skyfire and Starscream look at each other, their optics locking. Starscream nods, only once, and Skyfire echoes it.  
  
Nothing is said.  
  
Ultra Magnus takes the seat on the other side of Skyfire. Starscream sits between Hot Rod and Sunstreaker. Prowl pulls out a datapad as he sits beside Ultra Magnus. The quiet murmur of conversation continues, but Skyfire’s shallow vents seem to echo in Optimus’ audials.  
  
“Are you all right?” he murmurs.  
  
Skyfire studies the table, but glances askance at Starscream before hastily shifting his gaze to Optimus. “He looks well,” Skyfire says with a thin smile. “I’m glad to see it.”  
  
Ironhide and Ratchet arrive, loud and boisterous as they jostle one another, Soundwave and Jazz in their wake. The latter are a curious pair, and they are not in conversation with each other, but they are nearly in step. Jazz is all smiles as he plops into his chair, and Soundwave says nothing as he takes his own.  
  
“I’m glad you decided to join us, Skyfire,” Ratchet says as he sits and tosses Skyfire a crooked grin. “Despite how tired you are, I mean.”  
  
“It seemed appropriate,” Skyfire says. “I appreciate your concern.”  
  
“Your late arrival is unprecedented,” Prowl comments, finally glancing up from his datapad. “The Senate must have been very keen to have you in the Prime cohort to break with tradition like this.”  
  
Skyfire sits back, a small frown wrinkling his orbital ridge. “So it would seem, though I can’t fathom a reason why. I’m just a scientist, a xenobiologist to be more specific. I don’t know what I have to offer.”  
  
“Hey, my claim to fame is that I volunteered. It’s not like I’m bringing anything useful to the table,” Hot Rod says with a shrug. “You’re way more qualified than I am, if you look at it that way. Not that I’m, you know, completely useless. Right, Optimus?” He beams.  
  
Optimus’ lips twitch into an indulgent smile. Temper Hot Rod’s bright personality? He can’t imagine doing so.  
  
Prowl arches an orbital ridge. “Made your claim already, have you, Hot Rod?”  
  
“Was I not supposed to?” Hot Rod tilts his head, mischief in his optics.  
  
“It must be done eventually. The rules are rather inflexible on that point,” Optimus says, and spreads his hands, giving Prowl a wry look while Hot Rod grins beside him. “After all, there is protocol to consider, yes?” He keeps his tone dry.  
  
“Protocol,” Ratchet echoes, and bends over, pressing his forehead to the table as he laughs. “Spark-sharing and protocol are two things I never thought I’d hear in the same sentence.”  
  
Hot Rod leans over and pats Optimus on the arm as if sympathetic. “Don’t worry, Optimus. It didn’t feel like protocol to me.”  
  
“Thank you, Hot Rod. I appreciate the reassurance,” Optimus says, heat stealing into his cheeks despite his attempt to act unperturbed. The fact that Jazz outright cackles, and Starscream hides a snorted laugh doesn’t help. “However, I do mean to avoid worries of favoritism.”  
  
Ironhide barks a loud laugh, rocking back in his chair as his field bursts with glee. “If there is a single mech in this room who is feeling neglected by you finally berthing Hot Rod, I’ll eat my old tires.”  
  
Hot Rod beams.  
  
“Congratulations,” Starscream drawls.  
  
“Thanks! I--” Hot Rod pauses, and his optics grow wide with alarm. He leaps from his chair, startling everyone at the table. “I forgot to get the treats!” He rushes from the table before anyone can say anything else.  
  
“Treats?” Prowl echoes.  
  
Starscream’s lip curls with an indulgent smile. “I taught him how to make some energon goodies, and now he’s determined to not only be the best at it, but turn all of you into his test subjects.” He lifts his chin. “I should hope there’s no one here who intends to be cruel.”  
  
Starscream doesn’t see it, but Optimus does, the way Skyfire gives Starscream a keen look, as if seeing him in a new light.  
  
“You’d have to be some kind of monster to try and break that kid’s spark,” Ironhide drawls as he scoops up a glass of engex and gives it a healthy chug. “I’m with Starscream on this.”  
  
“I find it curious. I didn’t think you’d be the sort to indulge a mech like Hot Rod,” Prowl says.  
  
“And what sort is that?” Starscream asks, his tone light, but an edge to his field that threatens the light atmosphere. “The sparkless Seeker sort?”  
  
“No, the sort who has a reputation for being unfriendly,” Prowl says. He rolls his shoulders in a shrug, but Optimus can recognize a not-so-subtle prod when he sees one. Prowl is still investigating each of them in his own way. “Realistically speaking, Optimus is the only one whose favor you should be trying to win.”  
  
“Maybe Starscream just wants to be nice,” Sunstreaker growls, surprising everyone with his surge to Starscream’s defense. His tone edges toward outrage before he sinks back into his chair. “Not everything has a fragging agenda.”  
  
“Considering where we all are, it’s hard to believe mechs might want to be kind,” Skyfire murmurs, perhaps not intending to be heard, but in the conversational lull, it’s loud enough to capture attention.  
  
“And maybe someone should spend more time trying to find out the truth than poking at a bunch of baseless rumors,” Starscream says with a pointed look at Prowl. “Just ask your damn question, Enforcer. I don’t have any interest in games.”  
  
Prowl lifts his chin, meeting Starscream’s stare without flinching. “Were you trying to replace the Winglord?”  
  
Optimus cycles both his audials and his optics. Yes, he’s heard of the rumors, but he’s also dismissed them as quickly. Starscream is hungry to effect real change, yes. He’s eager for knowledge and discovery. But Optimus, in all his research, has not seen anything to give truth to the rumor Starscream is secretly trying to replace the Winglord.  
  
Is Prowl pursuing this line of questioning for Optimus’ sake or his own? Is he trying to quell a personal distrust in Starscream?  
  
“No, I wasn’t,” Starscream says, arms folded, jaw set. “And I’m not using Hot Rod if that’s what you’re trying to imply. Sunstreaker is right. I’m being kind to Hot Rod because I like the kid, and I don’t think there’s anyone in here who could fault me for that.”  
  
Ultra Magnus cycles a ventilation. “He is a force to be reckoned with,” he says. “I do believe we’re all in agreement to be eager to try whatever he brings, yes?”  
  
“Of course,” says Prowl, as smooth as polished crystal. He goes so far as to offer Starscream a conciliatory smile. “Thank you for your honesty.”  
  
Starscream smiles back, all denta. “You’re welcome, Prowl. Anytime you want to question my motivations, you know where to find me.”  
  
Prowl tips his head, acknowledging the reply, but not commenting further. His gaze returns to his usual datapad, his engex, as if hadn’t just poked at an open wound in the middle of their dinner. Starscream turns and murmurs something to Sunstreaker, who scowls but the hint of color in his cheeks suggests it is complimentary.  
  
“I’m back!” Hot Rod’s boisterous cry heralds his return as he bursts inside with a tray held high over his head, like a triumphant athlete and their prize-winning trophy. It does wonders to break the tension, distracting everyone from Prowl and Starscream’s interaction.  
  
He brandishes said tray with a beaming smile and sets it down in the middle of the table, having to wiggle between Soundwave and Prowl to do so.  
  
“I made enough for everyone to try at least one of every flavor,” Hot Rod continues, bubbling over with this enthusiasm. “Tell me which ones are your favorite so I know what to make in the future. All right?”  
  
Optimus doesn’t know if it’s Starscream’s glare, or genuine affection on the part of everyone else, but a chorus of agreement rises from the gathered Consorts.  
  
Hot Rod beams at them, and Optimus thinks it’s rather interesting that he’s the Prime, but Hot Rod is the one who has everyone wrapped around his finger.  
  
It has a secondary effect as well in that Hot Rod’s antics take everyone’s attention, and no one stares too hard at Skyfire or Starscream, and they only stare at each other when they think the other isn’t paying attention. No one looks at Prowl either, for that matter, and if there’s a simmering tension lingering in the atmosphere, no one comments.  
  
Potential arguments and drama are averted.  
  
For now.  
  


~

  
  
After his training session with Ironhide, Optimus seeks out Skyfire, ignoring the aches and twinges coursing through his frame. He hopes that the shuttle has had enough rest for a reasonable conversation. He doesn’t want Skyfire to be out of the loop any longer than necessary.  
  
Skyfire is easy to find. He hasn’t ventured out of his quarters, and he opens the door to Optimus’ polite ping, offering an equally polite nod.  
  
“I suspected this conversation was coming after my talk with Ratchet yesterday,” Skyfire says as he gestures Optimus inside, keying the door shut behind him. “Please, have a seat.”  
  
Optimus selects one of the chairs near the large, uncovered window, which opens to a private balcony. Skyfire’s quarters are the largest in the manor, even over Optimus’, which given his size, was the only assignment Optimus insisted upon.  
  
Technically, Skyfire has the Prime suite, and Optimus has the room which might have been Skyfire’s, but he’d taken one look at the dimensions of the rooms and quietly switched them when no one was paying attention.  
  
“I hope Ratchet did not alarm you too much,” Optimus says.  
  
Skyfire shakes his head and sits across from him, the padded stool offering an ominous creak. “He only let me know you’d want to speak to me in private to allay any concerns I might have. He said you’re the one who asked him to look in on me.”  
  
“Yes. I hope you did not take offense to that.”  
  
“I appreciate it.” Skyfire grimaces and rubs his right shoulder. “I’d had a piece of space grit in my joints for a month, and Ratchet worked it free.” He lowers his hand and gives Optimus a steady look. “I’ll admit, I don’t really know why I’m here.”  
  
Optimus cycles a ventilation. “Why you were chosen to be a Consort?”  
  
“Yes. I’m on no one’s list when it comes to political importance.” Skyfire spreads his hands a bit helplessly. “I’m a researcher who spends more time off Cybertron than on.”  
  
“I wish I could tell you that the Senate saw something in you which could be of help to Cybertron, but that would be a lie.” Optimus rubs his temple, trying to ease an ache that hasn’t shown itself, but will soon enough. “They hoped your relationship with Starscream would lead to enough friction to distract me from interfering in their political machinations.”  
  
Skyfire frowns. “I should have known.” He vents a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping. “We’re all but pawns,” he muses aloud before he looks at Optimus, head tilted. “I’m as trapped as you are.”  
  
“I am the Prime. I do not think many here would share your assessment of me,” Optimus says. “I am technically the one with the power.”  
  
“Really?” Skyfire leans back. “How many of us were you given a say in choosing?”  
  
Optimus glances out the window, where the darkening sky and rolling cloudwork hints of the acid rains soon to come. “I’m told it is not the Prime’s place to choose his Consorts.”  
  
“It damn well should be, but interesting that it’s not.” Skyfire snorts, his field sparking anger before it cools into a simmering irritation. “You’re just a figurehead.”  
  
“It is what they intend for me to be, but unfortunately for the Senate, I do not intend to be placated by pretty mechs with a tendency to be temperamental.” Optimus sits straighter and catches Skyfire’s gaze. “I intend to fight for what Cybertron deserves, and change the laws which have done harm to so many of the mechs who live here.”  
  
“Bold ambitions.”  
  
Optimus gestures to himself. “I was a data clerk. I have studied Cybertronian history. I was not as unfortunate as other classes, but I saw enough. It needs to stop.” He pauses to gather himself before the angry tide rolls over him. It is good practice for the fight to come. “The Senate gave me a distraction. I intend to return with a united, fighting force the likes of which they have never seen.”  
  
Skyfire’s orbital ridges climb higher. “I don’t think bold is even strong enough for what you’re trying to do. I don’t envy the task you have in front of you.”  
  
“Neither do I,” Optimus says with a dry chuckle. “I know political machinations are not your forte, and I would not force your participation upon you. Simply tell me what I can do to make this situation tolerable for you, and I will do my best to accommodate it.”  
  
It becomes Skyfire’s turn to stare out the window. “Ideally, I’d go back to my research. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do with my life, and the mere thought of never being able to pursue it again is my greatest fear.”  
  
“I would never think to keep you from your research,” Optimus says, pushing sincerity into his field. “The Senate might have something to say about the freedom I give to my Consorts, but I am determined to fight for every one of you to have as much of your own life as I can reasonably give.”  
  
“That would be ideal,” Skyfire says. “I don’t envy you that fight.”  
  
Optimus sits back, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. “I have many fights ahead of me. There are many things I intend to change, including the entire Consort selection process. It needs to be, if not abolished, then restructured from the start. No more forced consent.”  
  
“It cannot be consent if it is forced, no matter how manipulated,” Skyfire says.  
  
“Precisely.” Optimus flexes his fingers before rubbing his palms along his thighs, trying to quell the rising fury within him. “I have never had any interest in partners who did not want me in return, and that I am required to bond with mechs who do not have a true choice…” He briefly shutters his optics, drawing in another vent. “It is anathema.”  
  
“You are as trapped as we are,” Skyfire muses aloud. “You’re a good mech, Optimus. I don’t think the Senate anticipated the Matrix choosing a good mech.”  
  
“To be fair, I did not anticipate being chosen,” Optimus says. “But I have been, and I cannot change that, so I must do my best with the opportunity I have been given.”  
  
Skyfire vents slowly, and some of the tension visibly eases from his frame. “You know, I spent the whole flight back to Cybertron worried about what my future was going to be. I might even admit to being afraid of what it would be like to be tied to a grounder mech.” He pauses and a small smile curves his lips. “It looks like I have nothing to worry about.”  
  
“I am relieved you think so.” Optimus returns Skyfire's careful smile. "I would like to be friends if that is at all possible."  
  
Skyfire gives him a wry look. "I take it most of the mechs here have been rather reluctant."  
  
"Some might even say hostile," Optimus says. "They are not to blame, and I completely understand, but it has made for an awkward atmosphere."  
  
"I've felt it," Skyfire says, and his field flushes warm with sympathy. "I would like to be friends, too."  
  
"Thank you." Relief flushes through Optimus, and he smiles as he stands. "I will let you get back to your day. I am sure you want to wander around. Did someone point you toward the library?"  
  
"Ultra Magnus passed me a map of the grounds," Skyfire says. He rises with Optimus, walking him to the door. "I hadn't realized it came fully equipped with a laboratory. Nothing like what I'm used to, of course, but enough to keep me occupied."  
  
"You are welcome to it. If there is anything you need, let me know. I am sure I can have it delivered."  
  
"I may take you up on that," Skyfire palms open the door for him, and Optimus steps through it, pausing to turn as Skyfire adds, "Prime, how much do you know of my research?"  
  
It's a curious question. Optimus' orbital rides wrinkle. "Very little, though I would be happy to learn whatever you wish to share. Why?"  
  
Skyfire hesitates, his field rippling indecision. "I have finely tuned sensors. It's necessary for a xenobiologist prone to interstellar travel. I tend to pick up on things most mechs wouldn't realize."  
  
"Is there something I should be worried about?" Optimus asks.  
  
"I don't know." Skyfire frowns. "I hesitate to cause trouble where there isn't any, but I also know you're a Prime the Senate wouldn't like."  
  
Optimus cycles a ventilation. "Information is the best defense. If you have concerns, I would like to hear them."  
  
"It's not a concern so much as an observation." Skyfire rubs his forehead, his shoulders slumping. "Were you aware Soundwave is hosting two symbiotes?"  
  
Optimus blinks. He knows, of course, that Soundwave is a carrier mech and likely to have them, but Soundwave had not introduced any upon their first meeting, so Optimus assumed he had none.  
  
"I was aware it was a possibility," Optimus says, choosing his words carefully. He doesn't want Skyfire to think he has erred. "There is nothing to be worried about, however. Carriers are quite protective of their symbiotes. I am sure Soundwave will introduce them to everyone soon enough."  
  
Skyfire sags with evident relief. "I've studied a bit about carrier culture. Protective is putting it mildly." He manages a wan smile. "I'm glad I didn't overstep."  
  
"Not at all, I assure you." Optimus returns the smile. "Enjoy the rest of your day, and I will see you at dinner tonight."  
  
"Of course. See you then, Prime."  
  
"Please," Optimus says before Skyfire can close the door, "Call me Optimus."  
  
Skyfire smiles. "I will."  
  
He is, at least, one less mech for Optimus to fret over. The Senate might have intended for Skyfire to become a source of strife, but clearly, they've underestimated both Optimus and Starscream. If anything, Skyfire will be a great support for Optimus.  
  
For now, however, he must find Soundwave. Not because he is upset about the symbiotes, but because he's worried that Soundwave felt the need to conceal them. Who knows what lies the Senate have fed him, or others, to make him think they must be kept secret.  
  
It takes some searching. Soundwave is not in his quarters, the gardens, or the study, despite the latter being the last place Prowl saw him. Neither is he in the training arena observing Ironhide and Sunstreaker's daily spar.  
  
Instead, Optimus finds Soundwave trying to evade a circumstance which would be amusing given any other situation.  
  
"--a maintenance check to everyone here. You're the last on my list," Ratchet is saying as Optimus walks into the clinic, the medic's voice thick with exasperation. "That click I keep hearing in your chassis is driving me nuts."  
  
"Scan not needed," Soundwave insists from the other side of the counter, keeping it between himself and the scanner-wielding medic. "Health optimal."  
  
"Are you a trained medic? Are you hiding a medical degree I don't know about?" Ratchet demands, rolling his optics. "Because if you were, you'd have fixed that hitch in your vents by now."  
  
He lifts the scanner like it’s a weapon, and Soundwave reacts as though he’s been threatened, backing up against the wall, his armor slicking tight to his frame.  
  
Optimus walks between them before this can escalate further, holding up his hands. “Ratchet, I am sure you have the best of intentions, but I suspect I understand why Soundwave is being resistant.”  
  
“I’ve dealt with my fair share of recalcitrant patients. He wouldn’t be the first,” Ratchet drawls, but he lowers the scanner.  
  
Optimus turns his attention toward Soundwave, who is eying the open doorway. “You have precious cargo,” he says. “You fear if Ratchet knows, then I will as well, and you will be forced to send them away, or worse, see harm befall them. Correct?”  
  
“Them?” Ratchet echoes before he lightly hits his forehead with his palm. “Of course the fragging carrier came with symbiotes. You could’ve just said so, damn it.”  
  
“He was not sure he would be allowed to host them,” Optimus says, half to Ratchet, but to Soundwave as well. “Am I correct?”  
  
Soundwave doesn’t move, but he jerks his head in a nod. “Affirmative.”  
  
The scanner clatters to the countertop. “No wonder I’ve been hearing odd noises in your chassis. They’re probably ten kinds of uncomfortable in there. Do you even let them out?”  
  
Soundwave’s visor dims. “Rarely.”  
  
“They must be going crazy,” Ratchet grumbles, and he scrubs his forehead harder. “Primus save me from complicated political nonsense and their consequences. I need a drink.”  
  
“Now might be a good time to retrieve one,” Optimus suggests gently.  
  
“Yeah, because you probably want to talk about this I bet.” Ratchet waves a dismissing hand. “Fine, fine. I’ll go get that drink. But no touching anything. This is my domain, you get me?” He gestures to the entire clinic at large.  
  
“I promise,” Optimus says, amused.  
  
Soundwave jerks his head in a nod.  
  
“Good.” Ratchet pauses by Optimus on his way out, leaning in to say, “When I come back, you and I need to talk, too. We only have so much time, and I’d rather get this taken care of sooner rather than later.”  
  
Optimus furrows his ridge. “This?”  
  
Ratchet gives him a wry look. “This,” he confirms, and taps Optimus’ chassis with his knuckle, right over his central seam. “I know Hot Rod already got his. My turn’s next.”  
  
“We can discuss that later,” Optimus says, heat stealing into his cheeks. Why does he have so many bold Consorts?  
  
Ratchet barks a laugh, and then he’s gone, leaving Soundwave and Optimus in the clinic, the door shut behind him to offer them a bit of privacy.  
  
“May I meet them?” Optimus asks once the silence has grown stale. “I promise I intend them no harm, only that they are important to you, and so I would like to know them.”  
  
There’s a pause before Soundwave pushes off the wall and his dock clicks open, two cassettes popping out and unfolding into smaller Cybertronians -- symbiotes. One is a black-armored feline, the other a red-armored flyer. They perch on the desk between Optimus and Soundwave, eyeing him with evident wariness.  
  
“I am Optimus Prime,” Optimus says, trying for his gentlest smile. “It is a pleasure to meet both of you. Might I have your designations?”  
  
The flyer hops forward, cocking their head to the side. “I’m Laserbeak,” they chirp and tilt their head toward the feline. “He’s Ravage.”  
  
“I can introduce myself, ‘Beak,” says Ravage with a chuffed vent. He sits on his haunches, and his amber gaze seems to cut through Optimus. “Don’t mind her. She hasn’t met a mech she doesn’t think is a friend.”  
  
“I would like to be a friend,” Optimus says, addressing both of them rather than Soundwave. He knows how most of Cybertron would treat symbiotes, as if they aren’t thinking beings in their own right, but Optimus knows better. “I know how important the relationship between a cassette and their carrier is. I would not think to supplant or prevent it. In fact, I will do whatever it takes to ensure the three of you can remain together.”  
  
“The Senate may not approve,” says Ravage.  
  
Optimus inclines his head in acknowledgment. “They may not, but it is one of many things for which I am willing to fight, and I know my approval will supersede their censure for this.”  
  
Laserbeak hops closer to the edge of the desk, her head tilted. “You’re a good mech,” she says. “I can tell. Soundwave can tell, too. He just didn’t want to believe it.”  
  
Ravage hisses at her. Soundwave shifts, moving closer to the desk, making gestures as though trying to urge her back into his chassis, but she ignores both of them.  
  
“He was worried you’d make us go away, or someone would hurt us,” Laserbeak continues, shoulders strong and brave. “Soundwave protects us, and we protect him. That’s what it means to be what we are.”  
  
Optimus lowers himself down to one knee so that he is not looming over both symbiotes, putting them at the same optic-level. “You will not be separated so long as I have any power in me.”  
  
Laserbeak’s field pushes at his, like it’s trying to peel beneath the layers. “I believe you,” she says before turning her head at what would be an awkward angle to a bipedal mech. “Listen to him, Rav. Really listen. Not just with your audials.”  
  
“I’ve been listening. I’ve heard pretty lies before,” Ravage says, and his voice gives nothing away, not disinterest or anger or confidence. “We’ll see what he actually does.”  
  
Soundwave moves even closer, his dock popping open. “Come,” he says, gesturing to them once more.  
  
“See? Even now he’s worried,” Laserbeak says with a roll of her optics and a flicker of amusement in her field. “He’ll get over it. I hope I get to see you again, Optimus.”  
  
“You as well. It was nice meeting both of you,” Optimus says.  
  
Ravage gives him a long, searching look. “I’ll be watching,” he says.  
  
They return to Soundwave’s dock, folding into their cassette mode, and Soundwave doesn’t look relaxed until his dock closes with a quiet click. His visor goes briefly dim, as though he’s communicating with them, and then he looks at Optimus.  
  
“Secret maintained. Punishment deserved?” he asks.  
  
“Of course not.” Optimus rises back to his full height. “You were protecting your family. If you wish for me to keep this secret, I will do so. You should tell the others in your own time.”  
  
“Understood.” Soundwave’s armor loosens a few degrees, ease filtering through his field. “Generosity appreciated.”  
  
“It is common decency, Soundwave.” Optimus gentles his tone. “I cannot begin to understand what sparkache you bring with you, but I intend to never add to that burden.”  
  
Soundwave nods once. “Time will tell.” At last, he seems the most relaxed he has ever been in Optimus’ presence. Perhaps not to the same degree as Hot Rod, but Optimus’ own armor loosens, as if he’s been echoing Soundwave’s tension.  
  
“It will.” Optimus retreats a step, if only to give Soundwave some space. “Shall I send Ratchet back to you? Let him fix whatever odd rattle has him so riled?”  
  
Amusement bubbles up in Soundwave’s field before it softens again. “Affirmative. Care appreciated.”  
  
“You’re welcome.”  
  
Optimus departs, feeling as though he’s tallied two victories today. He’s on the road to making an ally of Soundwave, and Skyfire seems already to be in his corner.  
  
If he can have a congenial conversation with Ratchet, it will be quite the successful day.  
  
It’s not Ratchet he finds when he goes looking, however, but Prowl, who intercepts Optimus on his way to the kitchens. The former Enforcer’s expression is one of determination, his hands clasped behind his back, and his sensory panels held at attention.  
  
“Are you busy, Optimus?” Prowl asks.  
  
“I was only looking for Ratchet, but I suspect he’ll find his way back to the clinic whether I find him or not,” Optimus says. “Is something wrong?”  
  
"No. I only wanted to speak with you regarding our circumstances," Prowl says, every inch of his posture and his tone ringing with formality. "There are certain expectations of us that I would like to see fulfilled."  
  
Ah.  
  
Optimus finds himself straightening, echoing Prowl’s frame language, and it isn’t until this moment that he realizes he does such a thing often. Perhaps it is a side benefit of the Matrix?  
  
Something to explore later.  
  
"I understand." Optimus gestures to the corridor before them. "Wherever you would feel more comfortable, lead the way."  
  
"My quarters are fine." Prowl falls in step beside Optimus, hands still tucked behind his back. "I have done my research, and had several conversations, and spent a lot of time considering the facts. I've come to the conclusion that you are the leadership Cybertron has needed for a long time."  
  
Pride warms Optimus' spark, though he measures his reply. "Thank you. I appreciate your confidence in me. I hope I do not disappoint."  
  
"With my help, you won't," Prowl says, a statement of fact rather than an assertion of belief. His confidence is reassuring. "I think if we work together, we can effect the change Cybertron needs."  
  
Optimus nods. "I believe that as well."  
  
Prowl gives him a wry look. "And if I am beside you, I can keep an optic on you, to ensure you don't stray." He pauses in front of his door and looks up at Optimus, jaw set. "Make no mistake, Optimus Prime. This is a tentative trust, one which may eventually grow into a friendship."  
  
"That is my hope. I shall do my best to be worthy of it," Optimus says. "Thank you for allowing me a chance to prove my intentions."  
  
"I think we're all making the best of an impossible situation," Prowl says. He pauses a moment as if restructuring his thoughts before adding, “I feel I should apologize for my behavior last night.”  
  
“Toward Starscream, you mean?”  
  
Prowl flinches almost imperceptibly. “I have had my fill of mechs seeking to trample others for a small taste of power. I was worried for Hot Rod, but my assumption was built on a baseless rumor. I could have found a more tactful way to express my concern.”  
  
“I agree you could have been a touch more graceful, but there’s something to be said for clearing the air of misconceptions,” Optimus says. It’s a thin line to tread, hoping to maintain peace between his Consorts, but also, not come across as an authoritative figure. “I do appreciate you looking out for Hot Rod.”  
  
“He’s the one who worries me the most, from a political standpoint. He’s charming, but potentially a liability,” Prowl says with a quiet sigh. “If there’s a weakness in your support, rest assured your enemies will find it.”  
  
Optimus makes a non-committal noise. “I think he will come to surprise you.”  
  
“I certainly hope so.” Prowl lifts his chin and squares his shoulders. “In any case, I wanted to get that apology out of the way before we move into the next stage of our relationship.”  
  
Optimus glances at the door to Prowl’s hab-suite. “You mean the spark bond.”  
  
The smile Prowl gives him is wry. “It’s required of us, isn’t it?” He turns, keying the door to his quarters open, inviting Optimus with a gesture. “Shall we?”  
  
Well.  
  
It is much better to be invited than to request.  
  
Optimus steps inside.  
  
  


*****


	6. Chapter 6

“You look pleased. Care to share why?” Ultra Magnus asks as he leans in toward Optimus, the soft comment hidden to the overall chatter at the dinner table.  
  
Optimus lifts a glass of engex and sips it, feigning nonchalance. “I completed my spark bond with Prowl earlier today,” he says, behind the glass. “And judging by the looks Ratchet’s giving me, I’m likely to connect with him as well.”  
  
Ultra Magnus’ orbital ridges lift. “So soon? I’m impressed by your diplomacy, Optimus.”  
  
“I relied on their practicality. I don’t know if it’s really diplomacy,” Optimus says with a little laugh. “One might even call it manipulation.”  
  
“Playing to your strengths and their interests is hardly manipulation,” Ultra Magnus says with a snort. “It’s called negotiation. There’s a difference. I’m sure both of them would agree. Neither seem the type easily manipulated.”  
  
He has a point. Prowl is far too keen, and would read through double-speech in a sparkbeat. Ratchet wouldn’t stand for it either, because if there’s one thing Ratchet does not do, it’s hold his glossa. He speaks his mind without an ounce of tact.  
  
“Fair,” Optimus says. He lowers his glass, grabs one of the treats from the tray Hot Rod has passed around -- his second batch of experiments. “I spoke with Soundwave as well. I’ve left it up to him to tell the others, but pretend to be surprised when you learn he has two symbiotes with him.”  
  
“Frankly, I’d be more surprised if he didn’t,” Ultra Magnus murmurs, and he slants a look at Soundwave, sitting quietly between Skyfire and Prowl, contemplative and focused on his meal. “If he introduced you to them, there’s a fair chance he is beginning to trust you.”  
  
“I hope so,” Optimus sighs.  
  
“As do I.” Ultra Magnus drags a decanter closer, refilling his own glass and topping off Optimus’. “We’re at the halfway point, Optimus. I know you want to do this on their terms, but the closer we get to the departure date, the less anyone will have a choice about it.”  
  
Optimus pushes the glass further away, the taste souring. “I know.”  
  
Ultra Magnus’ field touches his, gentle with understanding and sympathy. “It’s not a position I envy you for, but take spark. The atmosphere tonight is better than it was at the beginning. Clearly, you’re doing something right.”  
  
Again, Magnus has a point.  
  
Optimus looks around and sees Jazz in deep, playful conversation with Hot Rod, over their recent race apparently, while Soundwave and Skyfire have struck up a quiet exchange. Starscream and Skyfire steal glances at one another but Starscream is also deep in heavy debate with Prowl and Ratchet. Ironhide’s regaling Sunstreaker with some story or another, and while Sunstreaker looks bored, he isn’t missing a single word of the tale either.  
  
They are getting along in a way which seemed impossible based on that first night. Perhaps they are not ready to call each other friend but there is a path to it here.  
  
“Truly it is only Jazz who remains the most elusive. I feel I have a handle on what everyone else desires from me,” Optimus says. "Meanwhile, I'm still not convinced I've actually met Jazz, just the persona he wants to show me."  
  
Ultra Magnus frowns. "It may be that you won't ever truly know him. At least, not before the bond must be completed."  
  
"I fear you're right." Optimus sighs and drags his engex back into reach, taking a long sip of it. Engex does not affect him as strongly as it used to, thanks to his upgrade and the Matrix he assumes.  
  
How unfortunate.  
  
"Perhaps one of the others will form a strong connection to him at least," Optimus murmurs. It is his greatest hope that all of the Consorts will get along by the time they return to Iacon, perhaps even form friendships.  
  
If, over time, more should develop, Optimus would be in support of that as well. He knows he'll love them all eventually, in his own way, but romantic feelings may never develop. They are political bonds, after all. Optimus won't begrudge them finding love amongst each other. In fact, he'd encourage it.  
  
"Move over, kid. I need to borrow this chair for a second." Ratchet's gruff voice catches Optimus' attention, and he turns to see Hot Rod grumbling as he gets up, and Ratchet sinking into the chair on Optimus' left.  
  
"Evening, Ratchet," Optimus says, and knows he failed to conceal his amusement when Ratchet gives him a wry look. "I apologize for missing our conversation earlier. I was intercepted by Prowl."  
  
"Yeah, I can tell." Ratchet raises his orbital ridges, but his mouth is pulled in a sardonic grin. "Can't hide much from an old medic with over-powered passive sensors."  
  
"Ah. I see." Optimus takes another drink, though it doesn't do much for him. He's not embarrassed, per se, he simply wasn't expecting it.  
  
Ratchet sits back in the chair, the perfect picture of ease. "So if you're not too exhausted from that, what say you and I get our turn over with, hm?"  
  
It's not a ringing endorsement, but Optimus supposes it is the best either of them can hope for in the immediate present. They are still but strangers, for all that they've had a few conversations. Trust and genuine affection will have to come later.  
  
"I feel well enough. I am assuming your scans tell you the same," Optimus says. "I hate to be trite but... your quarters or mine?"  
  
Ratchet snorts, his field brimming with amusement. "Your berth is bigger, isn't it?"  
  
"Technically, Skyfire has the largest, but likely so, yes." Optimus gives Ratchet a long look. "Are you sure you will be comfortable there?"  
  
Ratchet stands, stretching his arms over his head, cables creaking from the action. "I'll have to get used to it eventually, right?"  
  
Optimus frowns. "No. This need only be a one-time occurrence unless you choose otherwise."  
  
"And that's why I'll be comfortable." Ratchet grins, razor-sharp and keen.  
  
Ah. A test then.  
  
Optimus stands as well, though he turns and briefly leans in to Ultra Magnus, "I will see you tomorrow, my friend. Duty calls."  
  
"Good luck."  
  
He'll need it.  
  
Optimus steps away from the table, Ratchet already several steps ahead of him. "Good night, everyone," he says. "I will see you all throughout the day tomorrow."  
  
More than a few keen pairs of optics follow him out, though no one is bold enough to comment. Starscream might have, were he not distracted by the glances he and Skyfire continue to non-subtly exchange. The two of them are, for the moment, more interesting than Optimus and Ratchet leaving together.  
  
"You asked me what I wanted," Ratchet says once they are in the relative privacy of the corridor. "Well, I want to keep being a medic, and I want to keep working in my clinic. If you don't deny me those things, then you won't have any problems from me."  
  
Optimus nods. "Understood. I would not refuse you either, and if I can help at all with the clinic, let me know." He pauses to cycle a ventilation. "Protocol will require you reside with me in Iacon, but I will ensure you can spend as much time as possible at the clinic."  
  
Ratchet waves him off. "Yeah, yeah. I know there are things out of both of our control. I'm only worried about the things you can do. Got me?"  
  
"Completely."  
  
"Good. So long as that's clear." Ratchet rubs a hand around his face and sighs. "I'm not thrilled I have to bond with pretty much a stranger, but it's not really your fault either, so I won't hold it against you."  
  
“I appreciate it,” Optimus says.  
  
Optimus pauses outside his habsuite. "This is a bond of political convenience. I will not begrudge you seeking true affection in another."  
  
"I'm an old mech, Optimus," Ratchet says with a wry grin. "Political bonds are just about all I have to look forward to." He tilts his head toward the door. "Gonna let me in?"  
  
Optimus keys in the code, the door sliding open as Ratchet precedes him inside. "I do think you underestimate your appeal. If we had met under better circumstances, I might well have been naturally drawn to you."  
  
"You don't have to flatter me. I'm already where you want me." Ratchet chuckles. "Look, I've seen how you've treated everyone so far. Hot Rod sings your praises, and Prowl has already given you his trust. That's enough to convince me." He perches on the berth without hesitation.  
  
Perhaps with time, Ratchet will understand how sincerely Optimus finds him appealing. He suspects there is a deeper reason for Ratchet's dismissal of it, rather than the standard distrust of someone who is a relative stranger.  
  
"I hope to be worthy of that trust," Optimus says.  
  
Ratchet arches an orbital ridge and pats the berth beside him. "You can start by sitting next to me. We're gonna need to be a little closer to bond, you know. I promise I don't bite." He playfully bares his denta.  
  
Optimus chuckles, tension bleeding out of him. He's so worried about offending or hurting the Consorts, it has made him overly tentative.  
  
He sits. "Biting is indeed something that should be saved for much later," Optimus says, and Ratchet's chuckle deepens into a laugh, his field ripe with amusement.  
  
"I knew there was more beneath the poise," he says. "It might help, you know, if you're a little more yourself around us."  
  
"I will keep that in mind," Optimus murmurs and offers Ratchet something of a wry grin. “I admit, I was awkward with social interaction as a data clerk, and the Matrix did not equip me for societal niceties like it should have.”  
  
Ratchet tilts his head. “So you defaulted to stiff formality?”  
  
Optimus vents a quiet laugh. “It seemed prudent given the new responsibilities on my shoulders. I did not know what would earn me respect and what would cause ridicule.”  
  
“Having that thing inside you doesn’t help either.” Ratchet hums thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. “It changed more than your frame, I’d wager.”  
  
Given that he often refers to the mech he was as “Orion Pax” as though they are two entirely separate persons, yes, Ratchet is quite right.  
  
“I was gifted with a new name, true,” Optimus says, quietly cycling a few ventilations. “It did not tell me how to draw the line between Prime and Optimus or if I even needed to draw a line, say nothing of where Orion Pax exists, if he does at all.”  
  
Ratchet’s field brushes against his, and the way it yields to Optimus speaks more than all of their interactions. “If you ask me, we’d like to see a bit of Orion Pax and Optimus. Save Prime for the Senate, yeah?”  
  
The Matrix hums in Optimus’ chassis, and he can only assume it is a sort of approval. “Yes,” Optimus says. “I will certainly try.”  
  
“Good.” Ratchet's lips quirk in a grin and he gently taps Optimus' central seam. "So are you going to open up and show me what you got, or am I going to have to work harder to seduce you?”  
  
Optimus laughs for what feels like the first genuine time since he’d taken the Matrix. “Consider me seduced.”  
  


~

  
  
Optimus wakes to a knee in his abdomen and a grunted apology as Ratchet climbs over him and stumbles for the door.  
  
"Not ready to be the source of gossip yet," Ratchet mutters as he blows a kiss over his shoulder. "See you later."  
  
Optimus waves him off, still disorientated from the abrupt wake-up, and rolls over on his other side. The fatigue has a stronger pull than he's used to, and he falls back into recharge, only surging back online when his alarm chimes a reminder to meet with Ironhide for his daily training.  
  
He still wakes groggy, like he’s having a hard time coming online, and wonders if having a fourth bond settle into place might be to blame. He’s a Prime, his spark augmented by the Matrix, but he is also expected to bond with the highest number of Consorts in history. Can his spark support that many bonds, no matter how tertiary they are?  
  
It’s a question he supposes he’ll have to ask Ratchet. Too bad his berthmate has already escaped, despite spending quite the pleasant night in Optimus’ berth. Unlike Prowl, Ratchet had wanted to stay beyond the bond, just to “see what else Optimus has to offer”.  
  
Cheeky medic.  
  
Optimus’ lips curve in a smile. Yes, Ratchet is quite appealing, different in how Hot Rod is appealing, but Optimus appreciates them for their differences.  
  
He drags himself out of the berth, and indulges in a cursory rinse in the private washrack. No point in polishing up if Ironhide is going to leave him covered in dents and scratches. He’s a relentless teacher, insisting Optimus learn to defend himself from all manner of threats.  
  
Optimus appreciates it as much as he’s beginning to loathe it. Never has he ached so much from physical exertion. The newly upgraded shape of him can only do so much.  
  
He reads the daily news over a cube of midgrade, and checks his very limited message account. The last he’d received had been his notification of Skyfire’s arrival. He doesn’t expect there to be anything further, but he’s pleasantly surprised to find a message waiting for him.  
  
It’s a notification, and brief for all that, but it’s good news. Chromia has accepted the position as captain of his Primal Guard, and will meet Optimus upon his return to Iacon. She’s already on her way there to start hand-selecting members to serve in the Guard, which is standard procedure according to Optimus’ research. The safety of the Prime is paramount.  
  
He must inform Ironhide.  
  
Optimus saves a copy of the notification to an external datapad and makes his way to the training pit on the eastern side of the grounds. To get there, he must pass by the sitting room, and voices float out to him from the open doorway. Normally, Optimus would pay this little mind, but it’s early, and one of the voices has Starscream’s distinct… pitch.  
  
He pauses just before the threshold and peeks inside, both of his orbital ridges climbing upward when he sees Skyfire’s broad form, his wings pointed toward the doorway. He can’t see Starscream, who must be seated across from Skyfire, but he can hear the Seeker speaking. They are using low tones, and were Optimus not augmented by the Matrix, he might have never heard them at all.  
  
“--scientist not a politician. I don’t know how to play the game,” Skyfire says quietly. “Nevertheless, I shouldn’t have allowed myself to be so manipulated, and yet, here I am, manipulated once more.”  
  
“We both were and are,” Starscream replies, and his tone is bitter. Hurt. “But I shouldn’t have blamed you for things that weren’t your fault. I was the one who raged. I shouldn’t have tried to turn you into a soldier in my private war.”  
  
Skyfire sighs, and his wings droop. “I would have gladly fought at your side, but I never understood the battle, Star.” Optimus catches a whiff of the shame in Skyfire’s field. “I think a part of me didn’t want to see it.”  
  
Optimus steps back from the doorway, deliberately turning his attention away from the intimate conversation. This is not his to know. They are having the conversation everyone knows they need to have, and it doesn’t seem to be getting heated or violent.  
  
If they want to share the particulars of their pain with him, they are welcome to do so, but Optimus won’t betray their trust by listening further. Hopefully, their discussion will remain amicable and productive. He hopes everyone else will show them the same respect by keeping their distance and not interrupting.  
  
Optimus leaves them to their conversation, buoyed by the forward strides being made all around the estate. His relationships with various Consorts are improving, they are forming friendships among one another, and animosities are being set aside.  
  
The Senate will be out of their processors with frustration as soon as they realize their carefully constructed machinations have failed.  
  
A nearby door slides open, startling Optimus from his thoughts. He turns to look, and his optics widen in surprise as Ironhide steps out of the larger, communal washrack, a billow of steam accompanying him. His dark armor fairly glistens as he distractedly rubs a meshcloth over his head, but he notices Optimus immediately and breaks into a huge grin.  
  
Optimus swallows over a lump in his intake and is ever grateful for the extra boost in self-control the Matrix has given him because there is something monumentally attractive about a recently cleaned and polished Ironhide. Sunstreaker must have tackled the older mech at some point as well, because the black of his armor is so lustrous it has a pearlescent sheen.  
  
“Ya look exhausted, Prime,” Ironhide says, waggling his orbital ridges. “Can’t keep up with the rustbucket?”  
  
Optimus cycles his optics for a moment of control and quietly chuckles. “The gentle ribbing between yourself and Ratchet will never cease to amuse me, Ironhide.”  
  
“Notice you’re avoiding the question.” Ironhide slings the meshcloth over his shoulders and squints at Optimus, the scar bisecting his left optic only adding to his appeal. “Do ya need an acid raincheck on training this morning?”  
  
“Would you think less of me if I said the answer was yes?” Optimus asks. He’s more than a little exhausted. Is it too much to ask for a day’s reprieve?  
  
Ironhide tosses his head back and laughs. “I’ll let ya slide just this once, but I won’t be so easy on you tomorrow.”  
  
“Fair enough,” Optimus says, and thinks of the datapad tucked in his subspace. “In lieu of training, perhaps we can talk? There is something I wish to discuss with you.”  
  
Ironhide cocks his head to the side. “That sounds formal for a friendly chat. Am I gonna like what you got to say?”  
  
“I hope so,” Optimus says.  
  
Ironhide shrugs and wraps his hands around the ends of the meshcloth, tilting his head toward the corridor. “Let’s take a walk. You need to work out the kinks the old mech left ya with.”  
  
“I will refrain from discussing any kinks I might still have,” Optimus says, and inwardly preens when Ironhide chuckles.  
  
Optimus follows Ironhide out the door and onto one of the various paved paths around the estate, all designed for the casual stroll.  
  
“So,” Ironhide says, “What do ya want to talk about? And don’t bother with any of that political double-speak. Say it like it is, Prime.”  
  
“Very well.” Optimus produces the datapad from his subspace and hands it over. “Chromia has agreed to be Captain of the Primal Guard. By the time we return to Iacon, she will be waiting for us.”  
  
Ironhide stares at him, stopping in his tracks. “I… seriously?” He takes the datapad with something like awe in his expression.  
  
“Her acceptance letter is there.” Optimus points to the datapad. “I meant it when I said I would like for you to be together in whatever capacity I can manage. Once you and I have completed our political bond, there is nothing to stop you and Chromia from pursuing your conjunx bond.”  
  
“You’re serious,” Ironhide says, still staring. He has yet to power on the datapad, but his grip on it makes the device creak.  
  
Optimus tucks his hands behind his back and cycles a ventilation. “I am. I want everyone to be happy as best they can, and for you, that means being able to be with Chromia.”  
  
“Transfers like this don’t happen overnight,” Ironhide says, giving the datapad a shake. “You were considering Chromia before you knew I’d be your Consort. What kind of coincidence is that?”  
  
“A fortuitous one.” Optimus briefly scrubs his forehead as he admits, “I also suspect the Senate was aware of my interest in Chromia and thought it would cause strife to have you as a Nominate by assuming I was the sort of mech to be possessive of my Consorts.”  
  
Ironhide snorts. “That you aren’t puts you in the minority, Prime. You do realize that pretty much every other Prime in history would’ve cut off their own hand before they considered sharing their cohort with anyone, right?”  
  
“I am aware,” Optimus concedes. “I do not intend to be like any Prime before me. Perhaps it’s because I am of a different stock than my predecessors, and I come with a unique perspective. I don’t know why the Matrix chose me, but I intend to do right by that choice.”  
  
Ironhide eyes him. “And you have Ultra Magnus to set ya right if ya start to veer off course.”  
  
Optimus manages a faint smile. “I am ever grateful he volunteered to take on that burden.” He pauses, humor dimmed by the decades upon centuries of historical research in his memory. “Power corrupts. I know I’m not immune to it, so as a precaution, I intend to surround myself with mechs who will temper me.”  
  
Ironhide turns the datapad over in his hands, still without turning it on. “Prowl tells me yer a mech we can trust. Ratchet seems to think so, too. And now this?” He taps the datapad’s screen before looking up, meeting Optimus’ gaze. “I think I can get behind ya, too.”  
  
“I appreciate it.” Optimus settles more comfortably in his frame, letting his armor loosen. “I hope I can rely on all three of you to keep me on the right path.”  
  
Ironhide snorts. “Oh, there’s no worry of that. I’ll put you in yer place if ya even think about becomin’ another Nova.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“That bein’ said…” Ironhide tucks the datapad into his subspace and plants his hands on his hips, giving Optimus a rakish grin. “We gotta get that bond out of the way eventually, right? So I’m claimin’ ya tonight. Make ya forget all about that rustbucket of a medic.”  
  
Optimus chuckles. “I think your playful rivalry with Ratchet is going to be an endless source of amusement for me. Thank you, Ironhide.”  
  
“Weird thing to be thanked for, but you’re just weird, I’m noticin’,” Ironhide says with a shrug. His grin widens. “I’ll see you tonight then, Optimus. I’m lettin’ you off the hook for trainin’, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to be lazy.”  
  
“Fair enough.”  
  
Optimus watches Ironhide go, amusement tugging at his lips. Relief at yet another success lightens the heaviness in his spark. It’s enough to embolden him toward the most complicated designation on his list.  
  
Reluctance initially stays his feet. He stands on the path, soaking up the quiet solitude, and bracing himself for the complicated conversation to come.  
  
Jazz will remain his most challenging Consort yet, but it is a challenge Optimus must meet, so he sets out in search of the elusive musician. The one thing he knows for certain is that Jazz tends to seek out places of solitude, places the other Consorts don’t frequent. The roof is the first obvious choice, but Optimus would rather save said climb for last.  
  
He follows the path back to the east door when his audials catch the distant strains of music. They seem to be coming from his left, so Optimus stays on the pathway, following it around the western corner of the manor, toward the crystal gardens.  
  
If there is a place one might find solitude, the gardens would suit. They are massive, and cover a large acreage of the grounds. They’d been sown by Solus Prime, if Optimus remembers correctly, and each Prime thereafter has brought new crystals, turning the garden into a riot of color. Optimus regrets not having any on hand to add, but he supposes he can always return later and do so.  
  
The music is lovely, but no tune Optimus is familiar with. It sounds improvised, as though the musician is trying something new to discover the best sound. It is how he finds Jazz, sitting near the center of the gardens, not on the bench but on the ground, quietly strumming a small vibro-guitar.  
  
Optimus approaches at an angle, but he’s quite sure Jazz has been aware of him for quite some time. Nevertheless, Jazz performs a believable startle when Optimus steps into view, and gives Optimus a sunny smile.  
  
“Hiya, Optimus,” Jazz says with a cheerful strum of his fingers across the vibrant strings. “Want to join me for a private performance?” He waggles his orbital ridges.  
  
Optimus sighs.  
  
“Are you not tired of this?” He sits on the nearby bench, not within reach of Jazz. “These games?”  
  
Jazz tilts his head, still idly playing, though much quieter now. “Games?” he echoes, and his smile doesn’t falter. “I don’t know whatcha mean, Optimus. This is who I am, down to the very spark of me.” He grins, and it doesn’t reach his visor.  
  
“The only one who genuinely wants to be here is Hot Rod,” Optimus leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands. “He can’t lie to save his spark, and I’m grateful for that. You, however, I suspect are so good at lying that you have almost convinced yourself it is the truth.”  
  
Jazz hums and looks down at his instrument, gently plucking one string after the other, like a warm-up scale. “That so?” His voice is light, unoffended.  
  
It’s as false as the persona he continues to offer.  
  
Optimus rubs his forehead before he continues, “It should not surprise you that I researched all of my Consorts before departing for the estate. I wanted to know what to expect from the Senate’s machinations.”  
  
“All the better to get to know us!” Jazz chirps and flashes another blinding smile, his frame leaning forward. His voice lowers as if conspiratorial. “I’m curious whatcha found on me. How charming do they say I am, hm?”  
  
“Your file painted a very pretty picture,” Optimus concedes as Jazz preens. “You are an exceptionally talented musician. You are quite beautiful. You have a lot of friends, and you are charming. You are, in effect, the perfect Consort.”  
  
Jazz chuckles, and a faint color tints his cheeks. “Aww, Optimus. You’re such a charmer. You know you don’t have to flatter your way into my berth.” He strums the guitar faster, no longer a series of scales, but an upbeat song now. “All you have to do is ask.”  
  
Optimus tilts his head. “If I thought asking would get me genuine consent, I would have done it already.”  
  
“Since when does ‘yes’ mean anything less?”  
  
“When it is under coercion.” Optimus rubs his left thumb along the palm of his right hand, watching Jazz carefully for any tells. “I am under no illusions about the motivations behind most of my Consorts. This is making the best of a situation out of our control. I can talk about consent and willingness all I want, but the truth is, there is the idea of privilege being attached to those who come to my berth.”  
  
Which still makes genuine consent a question. If those who refuse are worried that they will lose Optimus’ friendship or favor, they may pretend to be willing so they don’t lose their position and protection. Or they may feel obligated to please Optimus for fear of the consequences otherwise, and hide that fear behind a false-consent.  
  
It is Optimus’ greatest fear that any of his Consorts would come to him willingly, while secretly loathing their time in his berth.  
  
Jazz tilts his head. “Huh. Then I guess you’ll never really know if any of us are there because we wanna be.” He pauses and strums one last time. “Well, except the kid. Hot Rod genuinely worships the ground you walk on.” He leans over to put the guitar to rest in the case at his side.  
  
“And you?”  
  
Jazz stands, performing an elaborate stretch that highlights his flexibility and the polished lines of his frame. He gleams in the false-light, and while it’s not quite a Sunstreaker-level sheen, it’s clear he’s been making an effort to keep up his appeal. He is quite alluring, but Optimus knows enough to recognize when he’s being manipulated.  
  
“Me?” Jazz tilts his head and stares up at the sky. “I am Jazz, Consort to the Prime, and I’m lucky to be invited into his berth. I mean, Optimus is handsome, and kind as far as I can tell, and probably sincere if I’m lucky.” Jazz looks at him then, lips twisted in a wry smile. “At least he’s not Zeta.”  
  
A chill races through Optimus’ spark. Zeta’s cruelty is a well-known secret. There are no official records of Zeta’s misdeeds, because a Prime can ensure such things are not kept, but the rumors are plenty. Rumors, even, that his death had been no accident, but the machination of Consorts unwilling to endure his abuse any longer.  
  
Perhaps mentioning Zeta is Jazz’s way of warning Optimus.  
  
“I am sorry,” Optimus says, bowing his head a few degrees. “If it were in my power to release every one of you, I would.”  
  
Jazz shrugs, waving a hand through the air. “Don’t hang too heavy on that guilt, Optimus.” He moves closer, gives Optimus a distant pat on the shoulder. “We’re all prisoners.”  
  
“Yet, I am the one with the power,” Optimus argues.  
  
Jazz’s visor flashes in a wink as he turns back and picks up his instrument, slinging the case over his shoulder. “Damn it,” he says, but he’s not looking at Optimus, he’s looking off into the distance. “You just have to be nice, don’t you? They’re going to eat you alive.”  
  
“Let us hope that is not the case,” Optimus says.  
  
He watches Jazz go, vanishing deeper into the crystal gardens, whistling as he does. For once, Optimus feels more settled after a conversation with Jazz. He thinks he might have made some progress, caught a glimpse of the mech behind the mask.  
  
There may be hope for them yet.  
  
Optimus lingers in the crystal gardens for a while longer, enjoying the peace, the soft chiming of the crystals as they bump and jostle in a faint breeze. He thinks about what he’d like to contribute, one of the lesser grown strains of altaite for example.  
  
Distantly, music starts up again, Jazz perhaps seeking peace of his own.  
  
Times like these, Orion Pax would have buried himself in the archives, deep in the darker, dustier sections where few cared to look. There he could have distracted himself with unchronicled truths and historical accounts, and lost himself in times gone past. He would not have been disturbed.  
  
Optimus Prime has no such recourse. Especially here at the Prime Estate.  
  
The closest he can manage is the on-site library. It is better than nothing, so Optimus rises from the bench and makes his way inside, Jazz’s music following until the door closes behind him.  
  
He passes Hot Rod in the kitchens once again, alone this time, frowning as he stares at the oven as though it will bake his treats faster. He spies Prowl in the sunroom, bent over a datapad, face pinched with contemplation. But it is Skyfire he stumbles upon in the library, the shuttle tucked away in the sciences section, a genuine mound of datapads stacked around him.  
  
His field is the gentlest and most content Optimus has sensed since Skyfire’s arrival. Granted, he has only been here a few days, but a low-grade anxiety had accompanied Skyfire at first, and it is gone now. Perhaps his conversation with Starscream had done much to ease his worries.  
  
“Hello, Optimus.” Skyfire smiles at him. “Looking for something to read?”  
  
“Looking for something familiar. I admit I miss the archives.” Optimus takes a seat near Skyfire, scanning the shelves for something appealing. “How are you today?”  
  
“Better.” Skyfire shifts, resting his hand over the datapad currently in his possession. “Starscream and I cleared the air, so you can stop worrying about that potential issue.”  
  
“I am glad you two are working toward friendship again,” Optimus says. “I am sure it must be a relief to you as well.”  
  
Skyfire rests his knuckles against his chin, wingtips fluttering. “It is. Our friendship was something I treasured, and it broke my spark when it collapsed the way that it did.”  
  
“You do not have to share the details with me. I am relieved you will have each other in these unfortunate circumstances.”  
  
“So am I.” Skyfire smiles, soft and sweet, as if he’s calling on a memory that always sparks joy. “That being said, what were you looking for in here? Maybe I can point you in the right direction.”  
  
Optimus hums and gives another longingly glance to the rows upon rows of datapad, feeling spoiled for choice. “I honestly had nothing in mind. I will take a recommendation if you have one, and if you do not mind the quiet company.”  
  
“I can think of a few.” Skyfire grins and leans over to his own stacks, pondering them. “What genres do you prefer?”  
  
“Honestly, I will read anything.”  
  
Skyfire chuckles. “Oh, don’t tell me that, or I’ll have you reading xenobiologist’s texts just to have someone else to debate with.”  
  
“Interplanetary diplomacy with organic species is probably something I will have to attend in the future. Xenobiology would be a good place to start in my preparations for that,” Optimus says.  
  
“You may regret inviting my babble,” Skyfire teases, but he sits back and digs into his subspace, producing a well-worn datapad. “Here are the first three introductory volumes to the species we are most likely to encounter.”  
  
“Are they your personal copies?” Optimus asks as he accepts the datapads -- much heavier than he anticipates, likely one of the older designs, which are known to be sturdier.  
  
“They are, but I trust you will be respectful with them. It’s in your spark to handle such things with care and respect,” Skyfire points out. He settles into his chair, pulling out his datapad once more. “I also have snacks.”  
  
Optimus chuckles. “You planned your afternoon well.”  
  
“I planned not to leave the library until it was time for the evening refuel,” Skyfire says wryly. His field ripples amusement. “I myself am focusing on historical accounts of the nomenclature behind the surrounding star system.”  
  
Optimus squints at him. “You’re reading mythology regarding the constellations.”  
  
“Yes, I’m reading fictional tales.” Skyfire laughs genuinely, and it is a wonderful sound. His openness is unbelievably charming. “See? I’m not some stodgy scientist alone.”  
  
“I never assumed you were.” Optimus grins and powers on the well-worn datapad. “If you should have any rust sticks, I would not refuse.”  
  
Skyfire holds out a box.  
  
Optimus is polite enough to only take a few.  
  


~

  
  
There’s something to be said for spending an afternoon buried in stacks of information alongside a mech as quiet as yourself. It’s nostalgic, and comforting, and Optimus feels a part of him settle, down to his very spark.  
  
He and Skyfire speak very little, only occasionally commenting to each other about their respective materials. Instead, they sit in a mostly peaceful silence, passing a box of rust sticks back and forth between them.  
  
Time passes too quickly for Optimus’ comfort, an alarm soon chiming to remind him of the lateness of the hour. He sighs and powers down the datapad, stretching to ease the kinks in his frame from being too still.  
  
“It is that time,” he says, reluctantly. “Thank you for loaning this to me. I found it quite fascinating.”  
  
“I am surprised you stuck with it.” Skyfire waves him away. “Keep it. At least until you finish it, I mean. I trust you’ll keep it safe.”  
  
Optimus inclines his head. “Thank you. I will.” He tucks the datapad safely away. He knows all too well the value of a collection of important information. “There is something we should discuss if you have a moment.”  
  
“We’re going to the same place. We have plenty of time,” Skyfire says. He begins making tidier stacks of his accrued datapads. “It sounds serious.”  
  
“Only so much as it needs to be for our circumstances,” Optimus says with a sigh. “Before we return to Iacon, I do need to form a spark bond with each of the Consorts, not dissimilar to an amica bond.  
  
“Ah.” Skyfire nods. “I was aware this was a necessity. It’s not ideal, but you are trapped in this as much as we are. Do not trouble yourself over a requirement we both must meet.”  
  
Optimus’ shoulders sink with relief. “Your understanding is a treasure to me, Skyfire. I appreciate your patience.”  
  
“I suspect few of those here have been so kind,” Skyfire says dryly. “When would you like to complete this?”  
  
“I have prior arrangements tonight, but otherwise, my schedule is open to you,” says Optimus.  
  
Skyfire stands and stretches to ease his own tense cables. “Tomorrow then,” he says. “It’ll be a pleasure to know you better.”  
  
He sounds as if he means it.  
  
“I feel the same way,” Optimus says. “Come. Let us go to dinner.”  
  
Skyfire offers him his elbow. “Shall I escort you, my Prime?”  
  
Optimus chuckles. “I would be honored.”  
  
It’s an old-fashioned style of courting, but Optimus admits, he’s charmed by it. There’s a sense they have genuine affection for each other, rather than the interaction the Senate has forced upon them.  
  
He thanks Primus the Senate had been so short-sighted as to nominate Skyfire.  
  
Starscream seems glad for this as well. The moment they arrive, Skyfire escorts Optimus to his seat, only to take the empty one beside Starscream, the two of them instantly leaning in toward each other with a long-time familiarity. Starscream’s wings twitch cutely, and the small smile on his lips is the most adorable thing Optimus has seen in quite some time. It’s as if all the rough edges have been softened by their reconciliation.  
  
It’s beautiful.  
  
“See? It’s not all terrible endings,” Hot Rod says as he leans in toward Optimus, nudging him gently in the side. “You should cut yourself some slack, Optimus.”  
  
“You’re right.” Optimus favors Hot Rod with a smile. “It also seems I have you to thank. I hear you’ve been championing me to the others.”  
  
Hot Rod beams, his spoiler twitching up and down. “I’m only telling them the truth as I see it. It’s not like I’m lying.”  
  
“I know.” Optimus rests a hand on Hot Rod’s shoulder, letting the outer edges of their fields knit together in a show of affection. “I mean that I appreciate you and all you’re doing for me. It brings me great comfort.”  
  
Hot Rod’s smile grows larger, his face coloring with delight. The urge to sweep him up into a kiss is overwhelming. Optimus restrains himself, but only just.  
  
Hot Rod taps a playful rhythm on Optimus’ chassis. “When this is all over and I can be in your berth whenever you let me, we are going to have so much fun,” he says with a playful wink before he draws back and leaps to his feet. “Alright, my mechs, guess what I found today?”  
  
“Primus,” Ratchet groans, snatching the nearest decanter of engex and pouring himself a liberal glass. “What is it this time, kid?”  
  
“You out of energy, old mech? Not as young as you used to be?” Ironhide teases.  
  
“Shuddup.”  
  
“Go on, Hot Rod,” says Prowl. “We’re listening.”  
  
“Thank you, Prowl.” Hot Rod flashes him a winning smile before he scoots out from the table and fetches a nearby crate. He hefts it up and drops it with a solid thunk on the table, but not before Sunstreaker quickly rescues a tray of treats. “This is full of games we can play.”  
  
“Games?” Skyfire leans forward, intrigue written in the vibrations of his field.  
  
“Yep! Better than sitting around and staring at each other over engex like we always do, right?” Hot Rod peels off the lid, tossing it over his shoulder where it clatters to the ground. “There’s Battlefield and Peril and Syndicate and Fullstasis and some other game that I’ve never heard of, plus a few sets of cards.”  
  
“Battlefield?” Ratchet asks. “Toss me that one, kid. It’s old enough even you should be familiar with it, Ironhide.”  
  
Ironhide rolls his optics, but he clears a space on the table between them. “Bring it, rustbucket. I’ll show you why I’m a force to be reckoned with.”  
  
“What do you say, Skyfire? Would you like to try a round of Fullstasis with me?” Starscream asks, already leaning across the table to dig in the crate himself.  
  
“Sure,” says Skyfire, and soon enough, Hot Rod is distributing games all around the table, with Prowl and Sunstreaker and Soundwave taking part in a rousing battle of Praxus Fold’Em while Ultra Magnus and Optimus invite Hot Rod to join them for a game of Peril.  
  
It is only Jazz who does not join the festivities when normally he would be one of the first to volunteer. He waves off Prowl’s invitation to join their group, offering a wan smile.  
  
“Actually, I’m not feelin’ that great,” he says, holding up his hands as he backs away from the table. “Think I’ll take a rain check on that.”  
  
“What? Not feeling well?” Ratchet leans back in his chair to see around Ironhide’s bulk, eying Jazz suspiciously. “What are your symptoms?”  
  
Jazz waves him off. “Calm down, medic. Think I’m just tired. Didn’t recharge well, you know how it is. Holster your scanner.”  
  
“I haven’t even pulled it out,” Ratchet protests, and lets the chair thunk back into place. “Honestly, the way all of you flee a standard maintenance check is ridiculous.”  
  
“Perhaps if you didn’t insist on bullying mechs into it,” Ironhide points out.  
  
“It’s not bullying to care about someone’s physical welfare,” Ratchet snaps. “Now make your move or consider the game forfeit.”  
  
In the midst of their bickering, Jazz vanishes, escaping the medic’s threatened scan. Optimus frowns, concerned, but knows better than to give Jazz chase. Whatever thoughts occupy Jazz mind, he won’t be comforted by Optimus seeking him out.  
  
“I’ll check on him later, if he’ll let me,” Hot Rod says whilst he contemplates the board in front of him, face pinched with concentration. “If not, I’ll make Soundwave do it. They get along for some weird reason. A mech who talks too much, and a mech who barely talks at all.”  
  
“I suspect it has something to do with their respective backgrounds,” Optimus says. “I appreciate you keeping an optic on him, however. I don’t think he would welcome my concern.”  
  
Hot Rod gives him a keen look. “He would if he thought it was what you wanted.”  
  
“That’s very insightful of you, Hot Rod,” Ultra Magnus says. He doesn’t quite manage to hide the surprise in his voice, though there’s a new respect in the way he looks at their youngest companion. “You are more perceptive than you let on.”  
  
“I volunteered for this, but the Senate would’ve never nominated me if I didn’t have more than a pretty face.” Hot Rod grins and winks. “Promise there’s a bit more up here than baking skills and being cute.” He taps his head for emphasis.  
  
“I am glad you are finally comfortable enough to show it,” Optimus says. “Now I do believe it’s your turn.”  
  
Hot Rod groans and peers at the board. “This is more complicated than it looks.”  
  
“Diplomacy often is,” Optimus says with a laugh.  
  
Amusement is, in fact, what seems to be floating around the common room. Optimus sneaks glances on occasion, pleased to find his Consorts getting along and having fun. There are friendly rivalries of course -- Ratchet and Ironhide have made it into an art -- but for the most part, everyone is having a pleasant time.  
  
“This was a good idea, Hot Rod,” Optimus says as the hours draw later, and they’ve moved on from Peril to Syndicate. Ultra Magnus is currently sweeping the board with them. “I should put you in charge of all activities for the rest of our residence here.”  
  
Hot Rod grins and rubs the back of his neck. “Well, I’ll see what I can do, though I don’t think scheduling time in your berth should be my responsibility. I might not be so unselfish if that were the case.”  
  
Ultra Magnus barks a laugh.  
  
Optimus demurely picks up the dice to roll them. “No, perhaps not,” he says.  
  
“Especially since he’s mine tonight,” Ironhide declares his hand lands on Optimus’ right shoulder, his grip firm. He leans in, pressed against Optimus’ back, an appealing, strong heat, and peers over his left shoulder. “This kinda game goes on all night, Prime. Don’t we have an appointment?”  
  
“We do indeed,” Optimus says while Hot Rod gapes. Ultra Magnus takes the opportunity to lean over and the properties from Optimus’ hand.  
  
“I’ll take care of these for you,” he says.  
  
“That’s not fair!” Hot Rod splutters. He lurches across the table, snatching up the fake creds Optimus has accumulated. “I’m claiming these then.”  
  
“It seems I am free of my obligations in this game,” Optimus says. “Ultra Magnus. Hot Rod. If you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment.”  
  
“Have fun!” Hot Rod chirps.  
  
“Oh, he will,” Ironhide says with more than a little swagger.  
  
“Did you win against Ratchet?” Optimus asks as they make their farewells and slip out of the common room. Ironhide takes the lead, not toward Optimus’ hab, but to the one assigned to Ironhide.  
  
“That depends who you ask,” Ironhide says.  
  
Optimus chuckles. “Fair warning then. If you play against Ultra Magnus, you must be prepared to lose. Repeatedly. Try as we might, neither Hot Rod nor I could emerge victorious.”  
  
“Really?” Ironhide rubs his chin, contemplating. “I’ll have to see about that then. Don’t think I’ve gotten Magnus in the ring yet either. Might be I should do that sooner rather than later.”  
  
“Let me know when you do. I would like to observe,” Optimus says. He pauses outside Ironhide’s door, waiting for him to input the code, but doesn’t yet enter.  
  
Ironhide stands on the threshold and looks at him. “Change your mind? Because I don’t think that’s really an option.”  
  
Optimus shakes his head. “No, I only…” He pauses and cycles a ventilation. “You and Ratchet have something of a rivalry, and while it was his decision to spend the entire night in my berth, I would like you to understand--”  
  
Ironhide grabs his hand and yanks him inside. “You think too much,” he says, as Optimus stumbles into the room, still surprised how well Ironhide can match his strength. “Let’s just get the bond outta the way first, then we’ll see if either of us want to go for more, all right?”  
  
“Yes, of course.”  
  
Ironhide’s still holding his wrist, but it has gentled as he tows Optimus toward the berth. There’s no hesitation, no thinly concealed anger. Beneath the primary waves of his field, there’s acceptance, resignation, but no animosity toward Optimus. The spark merge will inform him better, but as far as Optimus can tell, this is as consensual as either of them can manage.  
  
“There are some things that shouldn’t be a competition,” Ironhide says as he backs Optimus toward the berth and cages him in with brawny arms, the scar over his optic glinting in the overhead light. “But even if it were, we both know I’d win, right?” And he waggles his orbital ridges, confident and teasing, and Optimus’ reservations melt away.  
  
“I suppose there is only one way to find out,” Optimus says.  
  
Ironhide grins.  
  


***


	7. Chapter 7

“You look tired,” Ultra Magnus murmurs as they sit in the sun room, watching the simulated sun rise over the red-banded arch of simulated mountains.  
  
It had been a brilliant idea, to turn the largest window in the sun room into a holographic display, but there’s a sense of uncanny valley to it. Optimus knows it’s not real, so the view doesn’t settle his spark as much as a real view might.  
  
“It’s difficult,” Optimus admits, only to Ultra Magnus, here in the relative privacy of the early morning. As far as he knows, they are the only ones awake.  
  
“Which part?”  
  
Optimus sighs and rubs along his central seam. “Four spark merges in close succession,” he says. “I know the Matrix is built to support these bonds, but it still takes a toll on my spark.”  
  
“I imagine it does.” Ultra Magnus frowns and leans in, pressing his shoulder to Optimus’, his field warm with comfort. “And worse, we do not have the luxury of time to space them out.”  
  
“Yes.” Optimus swallows another sigh and shutters his optics, absorbing the peace Ultra Magnus offers. “Skyfire has already agreed to seal our bond tonight. That leaves four others to approach.”  
  
Ultra Magnus hums contemplatively. “I would suggest Soundwave or Sunstreaker then. It will hopefully give Starscream and Jazz time to approach you on their own terms.”  
  
“I agree.”  
  
Optimus sips his mid-grade, and puts aside thoughts of his Consorts and their eventual bonding. He allows himself an hour of quiet companionship, a break in the political flood through which he’s been wading. The toll is not only physical.  
  
If this is a small taste of what awaits him when he returns to Iacon and begins to fill his role as Prime, Optimus does not look forward to his future.  
  
Often he wonders what Primus’ plan is to have chosen someone like Orion Pax at all.  
  
The peace cannot last forever. Eventually, Optimus rouses and parts ways with Ultra Magnus, to their respective, self-appointed duties. Optimus has his morning training session with Ironhide, remarkably normal given their activities the night before.  
  
“Y’know as soon as we get back to Iacon, Chromia’s gonna want to train ya, too,” Ironhide says in the aftermath of their daily routines as they share a bottle of coolant between them, and Optimus stretches to ease the ache in his cables.  
  
“She will not consider your training sufficient?” Optimus asks.  
  
Ironhide snorts. “How many times do ya think I’ve beaten her in a fair fight?”  
  
“I suspect the answer is close to zero.”  
  
“And you’d be right.” Ironhide tips the bottle back, taking a healthy swig, before passing it to Optimus. “She’s merciless, too. Just fair warning.”  
  
“I appreciate it.” Optimus takes his own share and returns the bottle to Ironhide so he can finish it. “I only have myself to blame. I wanted the best.”  
  
“You want to stay alive. She’s the best way to do it.” Ironhide grins, beaming with pride over the femme he loves.  
  
Optimus hopes he can find a relationship like theirs some day. Maybe it will be with one of the Consorts. Maybe it will be with someone else. He doesn’t know. But he’d like to imagine he might have a chance in the future.  
  
“I will not discount the invaluable skills you have taught me either.” Optimus straightens, ignoring the creak and crackle of cables and struts stretched to their limits. “Between the both of you, I will be the most trained Prime Cybertron has ever seen.”  
  
“Good. Means you’ll live long enough to enact some of that change you keep talking about,” Ironhide says. He crushes the empty coolant can with a single fist.  
  
The sight of it runs a little shiver down Optimus’ spinal strut. Ironhide is easily one of his strongest Consorts, and Optimus can’t help but find that more than a little appealing. His attraction to Ironhide is not feigned in the slightest.  
  
“That is my hope,” Optimus says. His face flushes so he turns away, only to see Sunstreaker approaching with determination writ across his pretty features.  
  
“Uh oh, here comes trouble,” Ironhide murmurs behind Optimus. “I think he’s got optics on you.”  
  
“So it would appear,” Optimus replies as he tilts his chin and greets Sunstreaker with a smile. “I think you are a little late for the lesson, Sunstreaker, but I am sure Ironhide is willing to linger for more.”  
  
Sunstreaker scowls. “I don’t need training,” he says. “But your paint looks terrible. Did you purposefully frag up the beautiful job I did on it?”  
  
Optimus blinks and glances down at himself. Yes, he’s a little scuffed, and yes, there’s a long mark along his right arm, but that’s the usual wear and tear. There’s nothing outrageous about the state of his paint.  
  
To be fair, Sunstreaker by contrast is gleaming perfection.  
  
Come to think of it, Optimus distinctly recalls seeing a general increase in the appearance of his Consorts. Most of them look freshly painted and detailed, with only the occasional scuff, which never lingers for long. This has to be Sunstreaker’s doing, as no one else has come across as vain enough to consider their paint a priority.  
  
Well, perhaps Starscream and Hot Rod to certain degrees. They cannot match Sunstreaker’s dedication, however.  
  
Is it a kind gesture or does Sunstreaker simply have such high standards, he can’t abide for the mechs around him to be in what he would deem a shoddy state? Or is it an expression of nervous energy? Optimus doesn’t know Sunstreaker well enough to guess.  
  
“I apologize,” Optimus says. “I do not have your talent for maintaining my polish. I did not intend to malign your gift.”  
  
Sunstreaker rolls his optics and locks his fingers around Optimus’ wrist, tugging him forward with an unexpected strength. “Come on. I’m going to fix it.”  
  
Optimus stumbles along in his wake before he gets his feet under him. “I would have come if you had only asked,” he says, waving farewell over his shoulder to a snickering Ironhide.  
  
“This is me asking,” Sunstreaker says as he tows Optimus into the manor and toward his personal quarters, though his pace slows to allow Optimus to walk beside him. Only then does he release his hold on Optimus’ wrist. “I see you’ve already been with Ratchet and Ironhide and... others.”  
  
He can’t read Sunstreaker’s tone, whether it’s judgmental or jealous or something else entirely. Sunstreaker’s field is odd to him as well. It doesn’t flow quite like the others. Perhaps it has something to do with his being a twin.  
  
“I’m required to bond with every Consort before we return to Iacon,” Optimus points out.  
  
“And what if we don’t?” Sunstreaker asks.  
  
Optimus pauses mid-step, and Sunstreaker stops with him, looking up with his jaw set. “What do you mean?”  
  
Sunstreaker folds his arms, setting his stance. “I know what they’re holding over my head, the ones holding my leash anyway. I wanna know what the Senate does if any of us put our feet down and refuse.”  
  
It surprises Optimus that Sunstreaker is the first to ask.  
  
“I will likely have no consequences,” Optimus says after a moment. “I am Prime, and there is no such thing as refusal for me, but if one of my Consorts were to refuse, it would be considered a failure. I may lose credibility on the political stage. My Consorts however…”  
  
“What would they do to us?” Sunstreaker demands.  
  
Optimus scrubs his forehead, venting quietly. “I imagine it is an unpleasant fate. It would be considered akin to treason.” He cycles another ventilation. “And if we do not willingly complete the amica bond, it will be done by force.”  
  
Sunstreaker’s optics widen, his field spiking with alarm. He stumbles, his back hitting the wall. “Force?” He visibly pales.  
  
“It has not been needed before, but I have no doubt they wouldn’t hesitate. We are bonded by rule of law, after all. It is too late,” Optimus says quietly.  
  
“It’s always too late,” Sunstreaker mutters, and his voice is bitter, sharp. “It was too late before the bonding ceremony.” He looks up at Optimus, mouth twisted in a sour grin. “There’s really not much difference between the Senate and a crimelord, is there?”  
  
“Not when it comes to this, no,” Optimus says. His spark aches for Sunstreaker, but they are both trapped by these circumstances. “I promise you, Sunstreaker. I will do anything in my power to free you of your other chains.”  
  
Sunstreaker lifts his chin. “So that you’re the only one holding the yoke?”  
  
“So that when I break the ones compelling us, you will be fully free,” Optimus corrects. “Will you tell me what it is that binds you?”  
  
Indecision wars in Sunstreaker’s face. He abruptly spins on a heel and starts walking again. “Not here,” he says.  
  
"Lead the way."  
  
Sunstreaker takes him not to his own hab-suite, but to Optimus'. He doesn't question it, only keys in the code to allow them entrance. Sunstreaker chooses to sit in the small sitting area, rather than on the berth, and Optimus joins him, seated across to allow the golden mech his space.  
  
"You need say nothing if you do not wish it," Optimus says, but Sunstreaker gives his head a sharp shake.  
  
"I'm telling you because they told me not to," Sunstreaker says, and his jaw is firm, his optics hard and determined. "I'm putting my brother's life in your hands. Understand me?"  
  
"Yes, I do."  
  
"Good." Sunstreaker leans forward, his elbows on his knees. "I'm not going to give you a name, just the circumstances. You'll have to figure out the rest yourself."  
  
Optimus cycles a careful ventilation. "Sunstreaker," he says, gently. "You are stalling. You do not have to--"  
  
"Desperation makes mechs do dangerous things." Sunstreaker cuts him off, speaking to the floor over his clasped, trembling fingers. “Mechs like me and Sideswipe, we don’t have a lot of options, but we were stupid and desperate. We didn’t realize what we were getting into until it was too late. Until they owned us.”  
  
They.  
  
Optimus works his jaw before he finds the words. “There is a slavery ring in the bowels of Tarn.”  
  
“Not just Tarn, but yeah.” Sunstreaker’s fisted hands creak. “We kill ourselves to entertain the rich, and think we’re better for it.” He looks up at Optimus, optics dark and haunted. “Me and Sideswipe were good. We survived. Until we lost, and then, we had a debt.”  
  
“And it so happened there was to be a new Prime, and he would need new Consorts,” Optimus murmurs.  
  
Sunstreaker’s grin is too crooked to be arrogant. “I’m beautiful. The pits told me that often enough. And they wanted a spy. I could’ve said no, but when they hold a knife to your twin’s spark, no isn’t an option.”  
  
It is a unique cruelty to use one’s unconditional love for another as a means to cause harm. Optimus has no doubt that if it had been Sunstreaker’s own spark on the line, he would have never allowed the current circumstances. But for Sideswipe, his twin, likely the only mech he could truly trust…  
  
Anger flushes through Optimus, sharp and vivid. “It is a monstrous thing they have done,” he says, vocals tight, armor drawn taut to his frame. “But then, the Senate is little better, putting mechs here who would have refused if given the option.”  
  
Sunstreaker shrugs. “Cybertron’s rotten. Has been for a while. All of us at the bottom know it. No one else cares.”  
  
Optimus leans forward, resting his hand over the tight knitting of Sunstreaker’s fingers. “I care.”  
  
Bright blue optics look at him. “Maybe you do,” he sighs, shoulders sagging, fingers untangling to grab Optimus’ hand firmly. “I suppose it’s not going to be the worst thing in the world to be bonded to you. I mean, I’ve been bonded to Sideswipe my whole life.”  
  
He snorts, clearly a reference to a private joke between them. The fond affection in his field rises sharply with a deep and urgent longing, likely for his twin.  
  
“Were our circumstances different--”  
  
Sunstreaker squeezes his hand, cuts him off. “Look Prime, I don’t deal in ‘what ifs’ and ‘maybes’. I deal with what’s in front of me, and we both know neither of us have a choice in this. Stop trying to reassure me so we can handle the reality of it, alright?”  
  
Optimus cycles his optics. “You wish to complete the bond now?”  
  
“Why not? You got something better to do?” Sunstreaker demands, and there it is, his shoulders squared, bravado pulled over him like a mantle.  
  
Optimus lifts a hand, telegraphs the motion, and when Sunstreaker doesn't flinch away, gently touches the mech's cheek. "I wish matters could be different," he murmurs. "You deserve better than these circumstances."  
  
"You don't know what I deserve," Sunstreaker says, but his voice softens. "Thanks for saying it anyway."  
  
"I know that a mech deserves to be free," Optimus counters, but doesn't push the point. "If you feel you are ready, we can complete the bond now." He and Skyfire had not set a time, after all, so there's no harm in waiting until tonight.  
  
Sunstreaker snorts. "I'm as ready as I'll ever be." He leans back, Optimus' hand slipping from his face. "Just so you know, my spark is different. Comes from being a twin. I've been reassured the bond will still take." His mouth twists with anger.  
  
"Reassured?" Optimus asks.  
  
"It's how I tried to get disqualified," Sunstreaker says, scowling. "I said I was a twin, split-spark, no way I could support a bond with anyone but Sideswipe. So our owner went and got some spark specialist to prove me wrong."  
  
Optimus frowns. "A reputable one?"  
  
Sunstreaker shrugs. "He called himself Kaput. I looked him up later. He's licensed and everything."  
  
"I do not know him, but perhaps Ratchet does," Optimus says. He gently squeezes Sunstreaker's hand. "If you'd like to wait--"  
  
"No, I want to get it over with. No point in delaying the inevitable." Sunstreaker stands and sits next to Optimus, the heat of him tangibly inviting. "You should consider yourself lucky. I don't share my spark with anyone but Sideswipe."  
  
Optimus nods. "I will treat that gift with the reverence it deserves. Thank you, Sunstreaker."  
  
"Don't hurt me, and we'll call it even."  
  


~

  
  
Optimus wakes to an inconsistent beeping, and the low mutter of vile curses better suited for the muck and mire of Dead End. He tries to power up his optics, but there’s a throb behind them, and in his temple. Fatigue drags along his cables, and his struts, and his spark feels too large for his chassis.  
  
He doesn’t remember falling into recharge. It must have been after he completed the bond with Sunstreaker, because he remembers that much. Had it knocked him offline? How embarrassing.  
  
Optimus groans and reboots his sensory suite, forcing his optics online, only to shield them from the too-bright light.  
  
“Be still,” says Ratchet’s voice, grouchy and commanding. “You might have the Matrix and be an almighty Prime, but that doesn’t mean you can do five spark merges in such a short span without consequences.”  
  
“It has been done before,” Optimus says.  
  
“Yeah, and I’d have told the previous Primes the same thing I’m telling you,” Ratchet says with a snort. “Take a nap until dinner. You need it.”  
  
Movement in his bleary peripheral gradually clarifies into the familiar, blocky shape of Ratchet, wielding his now-infamous scanner. He’s passing it over Optimus’ frame, lips curved in a thoughtful frown.  
  
“What are you doing here?” Optimus asks.  
  
“Sunstreaker called me. He wanted to make sure you were alright,” Ratchet says as his scanner beeps, and he makes a notation on a datapad. “He’s more familiar with the pull on sparkbonds since he’s a twin. He thought you might be having trouble with all the frequent spark contact.”  
  
Optimus’ spark warms. For all his sharp-tongue and standoffishness, Sunstreaker can be quite kind.  
  
“And how am I?”  
  
“Fit as a fiddle, far as I can tell,” Ratchet says with a slanted grin. “Your fatigue is normal. Just rest as much as you can, and drink more midgrade. _Not_ engex.”  
  
Optimus slings his arm over his optics to block out the overhead lights, dim as they are. “Will I be able to support the rest of the bonds?”  
  
Equipment clatters and rustles as Ratchet starts to stow it. “It’ll strain you at first, but I’m confident your spark is strong enough. I recommend resting between merges.”  
  
“I am supposed to seal the bond with Skyfire tonight,” Optimus murmurs. His frame feels heavy, wanting to sink into the berth, and the layers of bonds around his spark almost have a tangible weight to them.  
  
“And you still can. Just take it easy until then.” Ratchet pats him on the shoulder, his field excluding calm and comfort. “No one will begrudge you some rest, Optimus. Especially if it comes from me.”  
  
Optimus hums, and returns the brush of Ratchet’s field with a warm flicker of his own. “I appreciate it, Ratchet.”  
  
“I just hope this obedience continues in the future,” Ratchet says dryly before he throws the carry strap over his shoulder, hefting the heavy crate with ease. “Go back to recharge. I’ll see you tonight.”  
  
Optimus makes a non-committal noise and rolls back into the cradle the berth had made for him.  
  


~

  
  
Ultra Magnus fetches him later that evening, “Per Ratchet’s orders,” he says with a quiet laugh. “I think we’re all going to learn not to disobey him.”  
  
Optimus’ chassis remains heavy, but the rest had done him good. His head no longer aches, and his energy levels have ceased dropping. Tonight’s refueling will help as well, though he will have to reluctantly avoid the engex. He hopes that does not extend to avoiding Hot Rod’s delicious treats.  
  
“I’m pleased he’s comfortable enough to start bossing mechs around,” Optimus says.  
  
“I think that’s his natural state,” Ultra Magnus says, wry. “You’ll be bonding with Skyfire tonight, I hear. That leaves only three more.”  
  
“Only?” Optimus echoes with a snort. “Tell that to my spark. I dread to think what would have happened if the Senate felt more principalities deserved recognition. There’s only so much the Matrix can blunt.”  
  
“Rumor has it Kalis was desperately trying to get their representative nominated. If they had succeeded, you would have eleven.”  
  
Optimus groans at the thought. “Then I am glad they did not. Besides, under what grounds did they insist? Kalis is smaller still than Altihex and they do not have a Nominate.”  
  
“Kalis has the largest population of minis on Cybertron. They feel they are unfairly underrepresented.”  
  
“Minis only comprise ten percent of the population. They’ll never have the majority anywhere,” Optimus says with a sigh. “At least, not without some finagling on our part.”  
  
“I’ve added it to the list.”  
  
Ah, the list. The ever-growing document of things Optimus intends to correct, from the largest inequality to the smallest grievance. Every conversation with his Consorts alone add more injustices to the list.  
  
“What would I do without you?” Optimus asks, looking up at Ultra Magnus with an affectionate smile. Truly, he’d be lost and exceptionally lonely.  
  
Ultra Magnus lifts his chin, pride in his optics. “Let’s hope we never need find out,” he says, and pushes the door open, holding it for Optimus.  
  
He pats Ultra Magnus on the arm and steps into the dining room, only to be intercepted by Sunstreaker who tows him toward his chair and urges him into it. His field is one of swirling concern, and Optimus’ many-times-over banded spark thrums from the warmth of it.  
  
“I am quite alright, Sunstreaker, though I appreciate your concern,” Optimus protests as he sits and finds himself in front of a tray of the choicest treats and two glasses of rich, viridian midgrade.  
  
Treats, he realizes with much relief, are not off the menu.  
  
“I know you’re fine,” Sunstreaker says, but he picks up Optimus’ hand and puts a glass of the midgrade into it. “Refuel.”  
  
Optimus drinks, despite realizing much too late that it’s not, in fact, midgrade, but highly supplemented medical grade disguised to look like midgrade. The taste is foul, chalky on his glossa, but Sunstreaker’s staring at him, and Optimus is loath to refuse his kindness and concern.  
  
He drinks. He swallows. He manages a thin smile.  
  
“Thank you,” he says as the chalkiness lingers and coats the inside of his mouth. “Not only for this, but for sending Ratchet as well. I’m sorry if I worried you.”  
  
Sunstreaker snorts. “You didn’t.” He plucks the empty from Optimus’ hand and replaces it with another full one. “Drink this, too.”  
  
Optimus’ tank gurgles hungrily, but his taste receptors quail. “In a moment,” he says, and reaches for the treats. “Perhaps one or two of these first.”  
  
It is nudged out of his reach, not by Sunstreaker, but by Ironhide suddenly perched on his other side, two orbital ridges raised in challenge. Hot Rod will be devastated if either of them decide to stay and take his usual seat.  
  
“Can’t have ya collapsin’ during our training tomorrow,” Ironhide says, and tips his head toward the medical grade in Optimus’ hand. “Energon first.”  
  
Optimus swallows a sigh.  
  
He appreciates their concern, though he does wonder if this is a trend that will continue. Can he expect to be nannied in the future or are they testing his reaction now?  
  
Hard to say.  
  
Optimus drinks the second glass under their watchful optics, and only then does Ironhide nudge the treats back into reach.  
  
"Good job," he says, clapping Optimus on the shoulder. "Now you won't have any excuses for tomorrow." He winks and saunters away.  
  
Hot Rod slides into the seat Ironhide vacated, looking grumpy. "This is my seat," he says, though Optimus isn’t sure if it’s directed at everyone in general, or more toward Ironhide’s departing back.  
  
"Relax, kid. He's still all yours," Sunstreaker says as he plops down on Hot Rod's other side.  
  
Optimus is amused despite himself. "I am for anyone who genuinely wants me."  
  
"Right now, that's definitely me," Hot Rod says, leaning in toward Optimus with a huge smile. He pats Optimus’ arm. "But I can wait until you're feeling better."  
  
"I appreciate your patience," Optimus says.  
  
Hot Rod beams.  
  
It's a quieter evening. No concerts, no games, nothing to cause too much excitement. There's soft conversation, trays full of treats, and a general air of companionship. It's a far cry from how things had started a couple weeks ago. Even Jazz has seemed to regain some of his prior zest as he openly chats with Ratchet and Prowl, a smile on his face, and gentle teasing in his tone.  
  
Fatigue, however, leaves Optimus not as energetic as he'd like. He opts to bow out of the evening early, murmuring farewells to everyone until he pauses by Skyfire and Starscream, their heads bent in quiet conversation.  
  
"I apologize for interrupting," Optimus murmurs as he leans in toward them. "But I need to borrow Skyfire if he is amenable."  
  
Starscream looks up at him with a smirk. "Is that right?" he says, one orbital ridge arched. "Well, don't let him tire you out, Prime. I intend to stake my claim tomorrow."  
  
This is the first Optimus has heard of it. Not that he's opposed. It's good news. It means he won't have to chase Starscream down. Trust Starscream to be full of surprises.  
  
Skyfire rises, amusement rippling around him, but Optimus dips his head in a nod toward Starscream and says, “I am yours whenever you want me.”  
  
“Then I expect you’ll let no one else claim you tomorrow,” Starscream purrs, promise shining in his optics. A little thrill races down Optimus’ spinal strut.  
  
“You have my word,” Optimus says. “Until then, however, Skyfire has my attention.”  
  
“Then you’d better not keep him waiting.” Starscream stands, sweeping his glass of fine engex from the table. He moves to join Hot Rod and Sunstreaker, tossing one last flirtatious glance over his shoulder.  
  
“I am not sure you have any idea what you’re in for, Optimus,” Skyfire says as they leave the common room, tossing quiet farewells behind them.  
  
“I am certain I do not either,” Optimus agrees with a half-smile. “Starscream is unpredictable. Which is not necessarily a bad trait, but it does make it difficult to know where I stand.”  
  
Skyfire gives him a crooked smile. “Yes, that’s certainly the Starscream experience.” He rests a hand on Optimus’ shoulder, offering reassurance in the brush of his field. “Don’t worry. You’ve impressed him more than you know.”  
  
“That is a comfort,” Optimus admits. “As is the fact you two are growing stronger in your friendship. If there is one thing these terrible circumstances have brought, your reconciliation is worthwhile.”  
  
“Mm.” Skyfire’s hand slides away and he tucks both behind his back, at the base of his wings. “True. If I had not been forced away from my research and dragged here, it might have been centuries before we ever spoke again, if at all. We’re equally stubborn.”  
  
“I will try not to give the Senate too much credit. After all, their intention was for the opposite to occur.” Optimus frowns, a low-grade anger still burning in his spark. The way the Senate continues to manipulate mechs and their emotions infuriates him.  
  
“Fair point. But I promise you this, if you gain Starscream’s loyalty, you’ll have no one better to stand at your side and argue for change. He’s relentless,” Skyfire says.  
  
“I am sure.” Optimus is more than inclined to agree. Though to be fair, he has quite the talented and varied group of individuals, all who have quietly agreed to turn their hatred and grudges outward, against the institution rather than Optimus himself.  
  
“You’ll see soon enough,” Skyfire says as they arrive at Skyfire’s quarters -- by mutual agreement. After all, he has the largest berth. “I admit, I may need your guidance for this next part. I’ve never bared my spark to anyone.”  
  
“You and Starscream weren’t--?”  
  
“Not amica, no.” Skyfire’s voice softens, aches with a quiet grief. “There’s a certain level of trust involved, and I don’t know if Starscream has ever let himself trust anyone to that degree.”  
  
Optimus sits on the edge of the berth as Skyfire perches next to him, the berth creaking a warning at the additional weight. “And yet, he has no choice but to trust me.”  
  
“Yes.” Skyfire sighs, his vents puffing humid warmth against Optimus’ side. “Which means I’m trusting you to take care of him.” His vocals firm, his field pressing harder, as though in subtle threat. “If he’s hurt…”  
  
Optimus is reminded of Ultra Magnus in this moment. Ultra Magnus who had set everything aside to put himself in a position where he can support Optimus, and care for him, who hadn’t thought twice about his own comfort. There is no romance between them, not in a way others might define it, but there is love.  
  
Just as there is love between Skyfire and Starscream, though again, not romance as someone else might define it.  
  
Skyfire has no bargaining power here. He has no political sway. His threats are empty, unless he’s willing to throw away his own life, his own spark, to see them through.  
  
He and Ultra Magnus are a lot alike.  
  
“I promise,” Optimus says. “It is not my intention to willfully hurt any of you. I may make a mistake, I cannot promise I won’t, but I can promise it will not be with cruel intent.”  
  
“I believe you,” Skyfire says, and then he smiles, the heavy weight of his field abruptly lifting, as if a great mass has gone from Optimus’ shoulders. “But enough of that. Aren’t we supposed to be bonding here?”  
  
Optimus chuckles and takes Skyfire’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “Have I mentioned how much I appreciate the kindness you’ve offered? It has been a blessing.”  
  
Skyfire’s face colors while his field tingles warmth against Optimus’. “You haven’t, but I’m sure your spark will tell me soon enough. Or at least, that’s what I’ve heard.”  
  
“It varies with the individual,” Optimus says.  
  
“Is that right?” Skyfire grins, with a hint of mischief so rarely seen in the demure scientist before he scoops Optimus up and effortlessly plants Optimus in his lap. “I suppose an experiment is in order then, isn’t it?”  
  
A low thrum runs through Optimus’ engine before he can stop it. Orion Pax had always held an appreciation for being mechhandled, and that has not changed from his ascension to Optimus Prime. Better, still, that one of his consorts has the capacity to easily lift him.  
  
“I am beginning to see why you and Starscream are friends,” Optimus says with a soft laugh. He performs a system check, telling himself to calm down. They are platonically bonding their sparks here, nothing more.  
  
Unless, of course, Skyfire should offer more…  
  
A large hand rests on Optimus’ back, fingers delicately tracing the line of his spinal strut. A shiver runs across Optimus’ armor, despite his attempts to quell the thrum of interest rising within him.  
  
“I have to keep up with him somehow,” Skyfire murmurs. “Allow me to demonstrate.”  
  


~

  
  
Starscream is waiting for him when Optimus emerges from the washracks. He's holding a tray with what amounts to a perfectly balanced morning meal, complete with coolant and medical grade supplements.  
  
"Good morning," he says, brightly. "I trust you rested well?"  
  
Surprisingly, Optimus is not as drained by his merge with Skyfire as he would have expected. Perhaps it has something to do with Skyfire's spark, or the method they went about their bonding. Skyfire, after all, had expressed his interest in pursuing more than just a bond, and Optimus had allowed himself the weakness of that pleasure.  
  
Has that made a difference? Optimus doesn’t know. It's a question for Ratchet, he supposes.  
  
"I did, and I am fully prepared to complete our bond today," Optimus says as he accepts the tray, hoping to convey his gratitude and not his trepidation over the med-grade supplements.  
  
"I'm a scientist," Starscream says as he trails Optimus to the seating area and joins him. "If you think I can't figure out how to make medical grade taste less like slag, then I wouldn't be much of one."  
  
"That is a fair point." Optimus picks up the glass and foregoes the olfactory test, choosing to show his trust in Starscream instead.  
  
Sweet, with a hint of carbonation, and endnotes of something spicy. Optimus is so surprised at how well it tastes, he finds himself draining the glass all at once and staring mournfully at the last few supplement dregs lingering at the bottom.  
  
Starscream grins. "See?"  
  
"Are you sure this is medical grade?" Optimus asks, though the truth of it resonates through his lines. A rush of vigor thrums through him, and Starscream laughs.  
  
"Retrieved from Ratchet and modified myself," Starscream declares before standing. "Come on. If I have to do this, I want to at least put on the airs of doing it right."  
  
Optimus cycles his optics. "What do you mean by that?"  
  
"You'll see." Starscream's wings flick. "Follow me. And bring the tray."  
  
He doesn't wait to see if Optimus obeys. He spins on a heelstrut and strides for the doorway, leaving Optimus a second to decide his own actions.  
  
He gets up. He brings the tray. He follows, and only in passing does he wonder how Starscream gained entry into his habsuite in the first place. A question for later, perhaps. Security around the estate itself is heightened, but within the grounds, it’s marginal at best. It would hardly be a challenge for someone of Starscream’s caliber to find his way around the door locks.  
  
"What is this about?" Optimus asks as they start to climb past the second floor to the third floor.  
  
"You'll see." Starscream flashes a confident grin, his field swirling around him a mixture of excitement and anxiety.  
  
Patience, fortunately, is something Optimus has in abundance. He steals only one of the delicious treats from the tray before they arrive at the largest of the upper floor balconies. Starscream flings the doors wide open, strutting toward the low railing without fear.  
  
Optimus is more reserved, hanging several paces back, still clutching the tray.  
  
"Keep watching, Prime," Starscream says as he climbs onto the railing and puts his back to the horizon, no trace of fear in his optics. "Don't take your optics off me for a second."  
  
Starscream falls back, a smile on his face, arms spread wide, and Optimus' spark climbs up into his intake. Until he hears the distinct sound of a mech transforming and thrusters activating and Starscream's gleaming flight mode shoots through the air.  
  
Optimus takes a few stunned steps closer to the railing. He couldn't move his gaze away from Starscream if he tried.  
  
Speed and grace, talent and skill. Starscream soars through the sky in a complicated pattern of loops and twirls, rising and falling, tracing geometric patterns with his flight path. The false-sun catches his polished armor with calculated glints.  
  
Each aerial stunt is more complicated than the one before, and Optimus is no flyer, but even he can tell that these are not easy maneuvers. The mathematical calculations to pull them off must be astronomical, and Starscream performs them with phenomenal speed.  
  
Starscream’s gorgeous and talented, and Optimus is more than a little grateful the Senate was short-sighted enough to think he could only be a burden, because Starscream will be anything but. All at once, Optimus understands why Starscream is a bit arrogant.  
  
He has every reason to be.  
  
He stares, enraptured, as Starscream climbs toward the heavens, nose-pointed skyward, only to cut his thrusters and hang in mid-air, for a fraction of a second, before he starts to dive as if in a freefall. His thrusters come to life, one, then the other, setting him in a spiraling plummet that steals Optimus’ vents.  
  
He doesn’t realize how close he is to the rail until his thighs bump against it. He’s clutching the tray like a lifeline as Starscream falls and falls and falls, only to catch himself at the last, spark-stopping moment, and surge upward, thrusters roaring.  
  
Starscream flies straight at Optimus, pirouettes in mid-air, and transforms mid-fall, only to land on the railing to Optimus’ left without a single wobble. He grins, wings twitching, and lowers himself into a crouch, reaching over and neatly snagging the single glass of mid-grade from the tray. He holds Optimus gaze, downs it in a few swallows, and crushes the glass with his fingers, the fine particles drifting to the ground.  
  
“You are amazing,” Optimus says, because he is suddenly struck dumb, unable to think of anything more diplomatic and clever.  
  
“Yes, I am,” Starscream says with a smirk. He tilts his head and snags a treat from the tray, idly running his glossa over it as though to sample the flavor. “And what I gave you was a gift.”  
  
“I underst--”  
  
“No, you don’t.” Starscream’s voice turns a little hard, not out of anger, but gravity. “Seekers court one another through flight, and when one wants to ask for the other’s spark in bonding, they perform an engagement dance. We spend decades perfecting the steps, Prime.”  
  
Optimus’ vents still. “Starscream, you did not have to--”  
  
The Seeker slides down from the railing, landing light and graceful on his feet. “I’d always intended to save my dance for someone I actually love, and maybe I can someday, but right now, I’m sharing it with you.”  
  
Optimus turns and sets the tray on the railing, balancing it carefully. He is far less graceful than Starscream. “It is a beautiful dance. I could not look away. It felt as though a part of my spark was flying with you.”  
  
“Good. That’s what it’s supposed to do. Though in a perfect world, you’d have joined me in the flight, to show you reciprocated my interest.” Starscream vents a sigh before his lips curl into a half-smile, and he steps into Optimus’ space. “Don’t look at me with pity. I chose to share it with you because at least that way, someone sees it. And I’m trusting you’re not going to mock it.”  
  
“I would never,” Optimus vows.  
  
Starscream cocks his head and sweeps up Optimus’ hand, his lips brushing over Optimus’ knuckles. “I’m binding my spark to yours. That’s the agreement,” he murmurs. He holds Optimus’ gaze as he feathers the lightest kiss on Optimus’ thumb joint. “But you’re binding your spark to mine, too. And that, Optimus, is where the Senate has made their greatest mistake.”  
  
Optimus cycles a careful ventilation. Starscream’s dance for him had been one of flight and beauty and grace. Optimus only has words.  
  
“Their mistake is my fortune,” he says, and reverses Starscream’s hold on his hand, so that he might also hold Starscream’s gaze while he presses a kiss to the inside of Starscream’s wrist, the lightest touch of his lips. “Thank you for the gift. I shall never forget it for the length of my lifetime.”  
  
“Flatterer,” Starscream breathes, but there’s appreciation in his optics. His ailerons flutter, his field giving a taste of how pleased he is. “Keep that up, and I won’t be held responsible for what comes next.” Implication warms his words, thick and sultry.  
  
“Shall we go inside then?” Optimus asks.  
  
Starscream smirks up at him. “What’s wrong with the balcony?” he asks. There’s challenge in his voice, in the cant of his hips. “Wouldn’t you rather have a pretty view?”  
  
“I have you in front of me. What prettier view do I need?” Optimus asks.  
  
Starscream snorts. “I can see I’m going to have to watch my words with you.” He leans in, pressing a kiss to the curve of Optimus’ jaw. “This is the closest we can get to the sky. Our bond should take root in freedom, don’t you think?”  
  
Oh, Optimus is going to have to watch Starscream’s silver-glossa as well.  
  
“Yes,” Optimus says. “In honor of the gift you have given me.”  
  
Starscream beams at him, and Optimus knows it was the right thing to say.  
  


****


	8. Chapter 8

If there’s one thing Optimus had not expected, it was that he’d spend the rest of the morning and a good chunk of the afternoon lazying around a berth with Starscream, the Seeker feeding him sips of coolant and energon goodies and chatting away about all of the good they are going to do. It’s a welcome and remarkable change from the waspish creature Optimus had first met.  
  
It also helps him settle back into his spark. It’s an unusual sensation that words cannot properly describe, the feeling of eight different bonds spinning around his spark, pulling him in eight different directions. He can identify some better than others -- Ultra Magnus calm and steadying, Hot Rod an energetic twirl of endless curiosity, Ironhide strong and defiant, Ratchet constantly on the move, drawing closer to the other orbits as though testing their health.  
  
Sunstreaker is harder to find. He hides, often in Prowl’s shadow, while Prowl and Starscream collide and ricochet, at odds even in the quantum space that is the layers of Optimus’ spark. Skyfire is kindness, humming and radiating warmth.  
  
Perhaps it is coincidence that this quiet nurturing helps Optimus find his center once again, filling out the contours of his frame and reminding himself that he is Optimus, not eight other orbiting sparks. Or, knowing Starscream, he must have presumed Optimus would be struggling by now, and sought to be kind.  
  
Optimus is eager to accept the kindness. He feels heavy and raw, and while the medical grade does much to stave off the exhaustion, it can’t help his lack of balance, or the odd sense of being outside himself.  
  
He supposes he’ll eventually get used to the whispers that are his bond with each of his Consorts. For now, he simply doesn’t have the time to adjust to them at a reasonable pace.  
  
No doubt part of the Senate’s plan all along.  
  
Still.  
  
Optimus doesn’t have the time to spend the whole day lazying around, so he escapes from Starscream’s nannying clutches a little past midday and wanders the estate instead. He still has Soundwave and Jazz to speak with, and he doubts Ironhide is pleased Optimus skipped their morning training session.  
  
Fortunately, Ultra Magnus seems to have proven quite the distraction for the gruff soldier.  
  
“You can’t just throw yer weight around and assume that’s going to be enough,” Ironhide says after he tosses Ultra Magnus over his shoulder and the larger mech hits the ground in a loud tumble of limbs.  
  
Optimus winces sympathetically.  
  
“Aren’t you some kind of genius?” Ironhide asks as he stalks over and offers a hand to Ultra Magnus to help him up. “It’s about momentum and balance.”  
  
Ultra Magnus sighs and stands, brushing arena-grit from his armor. “My training neglected hand-to-hand. My instructors seemed to think that as long as I held a blaster, I would be fine. My size, after all, is threatening enough.”  
  
Ironhide snorts. “You can’t assume that.” He pokes Ultra Magnus in the chassis, which makes a dull thunk of metal on metal. “I’ve fought bigger ‘n stronger than you ‘cause I had to. And I’m still standing here. Being big don’t make ya invincible. Get me?”  
  
“I do.” Ultra Magnus dips his head, looking rather contrite, and Optimus hides a smile behind his hand. It is rare to see his dear friend so cowed, especially given that he’s half-again Ironhide’s height, and far broader at the shoulders.  
  
Perhaps Ironhide reminds him of a caretaker or a former instructor.  
  
“Good.” Ironhide scrubs a hand down his face and peers up at Ultra Magnus. “Maybe metallikato ain’t your style. I should drag Prowl out here, get ‘im to teach ya some of that circuit-su slag he loves. It might be more your speed.”  
  
“I think the problem is that I am too much of a tactician,” Ultra Magnus says with a gusty sigh. “I deal with numbers, strategy, armies, not the single individual.”  
  
Ironhide cocks an orbital ridge. “Ya wanna support Optimus like ya say, then ya better get a little more flexible. He’s gonna need it.”  
  
“You’re right.” Ultra Magnus straightens and slides into a defensive stance. “Let’s try it again then.”  
  
“That’s the spirit!”  
  
Optimus quietly takes his leave without either mech noticing, or if they do, commenting on his appearance. Ultra Magnus has always been something of a loner, his friendship with Orion Pax notwithstanding. Optimus is glad to see him befriending some of the other Consorts. It makes him feel less guilty about the sacrifices his dear friend has made.  
  
Inside, Optimus passes Prowl and Sunstreaker in the sunroom, up on the dais where the large windows provide the most external light.  
  
"--want to learn the promenade next," Sunstreaker is saying as he stands behind Prowl, paintbrush in hand, eyeing the sharp lines of Prowl's sensory panels.  
  
"A good idea. The Iaconian promenade is the basis for many other dances. It will give you a good form to build upon," Prowl says, sitting perfectly still, his armor not so much as twitching.  
  
Sunstreaker snorts. "It helps that the waltz is the preferred dance of the nobility, right?"  
  
"There is that," Prowl admits. "I suspect we'll be attending many formal events in the future. Learning the proper dances is a matter of course."  
  
"We can't make our Prime look like a fool," Sunstreaker says. "Well, we could. If we wanted to be snide about it."  
  
Prowl hums a non-committal noise. "Is that what you want to do?"  
  
Sunstreaker sighs. "It'd be easier if he was just a little bit cruel."  
  
"Because then you'd have somewhere to aim your anger?"  
  
Sunstreaker scowls at Prowl's back. "Don't psychoanalyze me."  
  
"It's an honest question."  
  
Sunstreaker chuffs a vent and goes silent for a moment, painting exquisite detail along the leading edge of Prowl's sensory panel before he continues. "Hating him would make all of this easier. I don't know how to..."  
  
"Trust kindness?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Prowl doesn't move, but he must have done something with his field, because the tight clamp of Sunstreaker's armor loosens by a degree. "You are not alone in this, Sunstreaker. We are all desperately hoping the mech we've bonded to is not a monster."  
  
Sunstreaker vents quietly. "Thank you."  
  
Optimus quietly steps back and away, feeling guilty for having intruded in the first place. He doesn't know if either of them were aware of him -- Prowl perhaps, if he hadn't dampened his sensors too thoroughly -- but it still feels like a moment he should not have witnessed.  
  
He knows trust will come slowly. He's prepared to wait as long as it takes. They've only known each other for a few weeks at best, and Sunstreaker has had a harder life than most. When his trust does come, Optimus will know it to be fairly won.  
  
He hopes he proves worthy of it.  
  
Optimus slips away. He peers briefly into the library, unsurprised to find Starscream and Skyfire ensconced within, heads bent over a large, historic tome. It is physical as opposed to a data-pad, where the information has been inscribed on thin sheets of duryllium in ancient glyphs. They appear to be working on translating it together.  
  
Fascinating.  
  
Any other time, Optimus would ask to join them, intrigued by what knowledge might be buried in the delicate pages. For now, however, he leaves them be, and continues his search for the last two he needs to bond -- Soundwave and Jazz, the two who have always been the most elusive.  
  
They are not in the kitchens, the dining hall, the laboratory, the atrium, or the conservatory. Neither are they in the medical clinic, though he does find Ratchet who has finally cornered Hot Rod, much to the latter’s dismay.  
  
"My savior has arrived!" Hot Rod says as Optimus walks into the room, giving Optimus a desperate look from his perch on the medberth. "Please tell me you need me for something very important."  
  
"There's nothing more important than a routine maintenance check, kid," Ratchet says, rolling his optics. "Ignore the drama-bot here. All I've done so far is scan him."  
  
"I'm fine!" Hot Rod insists.  
  
Optimus chuckles. "Then let Ratchet prove you're fine," he says. "Ratchet is going to be our medic. As far as I'm concerned, what he says, goes."  
  
"Awww." Hot Rod pouts, and as adorable as it is, Optimus will not relent. "But it's a beautiful day. I'd rather be outside racing Jazz or something."  
  
"The sooner you settle and let me do my job, the sooner you can run free," Ratchet says, waving said scanner pointedly. It gives an indignant beep. "I'm tired of hearing that screech in your gears."  
  
"Doesn't bother me," Hot Rod mutters.  
  
"Have either of you seen Jazz or Soundwave?" Optimus asks, cutting into their playful banter. As much as Hot Rod protests, he hasn't actually tried to get away, which he most certainly could do. He’s faster and much more nimble than Ratchet.  
  
"No, but if you've seen Jazz, let me know," Ratchet says as he sets his scanner aside and starts digging through the cabinets. "I haven't been able to scan that slippery mech the whole time we've been here."  
  
Hot Rod shakes his head. "I haven't seen them, but Jazz likes to be on the roof, and Soundwave goes to the gardens a lot. Maybe try there?"  
  
He should have considered the garden. He’s found both mechs there on occasion. It would be wiser to check the roof first, however.  
  
Optimus thanks Hot Rod, ignoring the adorable mech’s plea for rescue, and leaves him in Ratchet’s tender care. He heads for the roof access, climbing through with several grunts of effort. He carefully picks his way across the roof, peering around the few parapets and arched gables, but Jazz is nowhere to be seen. The ceramic shingles creak ominously beneath his weight.  
  
He scuttles back to the hatch, and when he pauses to climb down, he catches Soundwave and Jazz in his peripheral vision. They're in the crystal gardens, sitting around the fountain, close enough that it is obvious they are talking to each other and not merely sharing space in mutual quiet.  
  
From this distance, Optimus can't hear what they are saying, though he does find their interaction odd. What do they have in common? Did they know each other prior to coming here? Has Jazz opened up to Soundwave in a way he hasn't opened up to anyone else?  
  
Curious.  
  
Optimus climbs back into the mansion, and makes his way to the gardens, hoping to catch either mech before they vanish again. He's not so lucky with Jazz, but Soundwave is still present, perched on the lip of the fountain with Laserbeak on his shoulder. Of Ravage, there is no sign.  
  
"This is a very large estate when you have to find someone," Optimus says. "Hello, Soundwave. Hello, Laserbeak."  
  
"Hi, Optimus!" the avian cassette chirps, bobbing up and down on Soundwave's shoulder as if delighted to see Optimus. "Did you know there are a lot of secret passages, too?"  
  
Optimus smiles at her. "I did not. Have you explored them?"  
  
"No. But Ravage has. And Jazz, too." Laserbeak chuffs a vent, her wings flicking in a sign of irritation. "I don't see why I can't."  
  
Soundwave makes a noise, but Optimus says, "Perhaps because Soundwave would prefer you keep him company."  
  
"He does get lonely without me," she hums.  
  
Soundwave scrapes a hand down his face before he drones, "Laserbeak, return." His dock pops open.  
  
"Awww." Laserbeak pops, but she obeys, safely stowing herself within his chassis without argument.  
  
For her protection or his own, Optimus isn't sure. Perhaps a bit of both.  
  
“I did not realize you and Jazz were friends,” Optimus says once Laserbeak is out of sight and Soundwave seems to relax by an infinitesimal degree.  
  
“Concern shared,” Soundwave says.  
  
Optimus tilts his head. “About me?”  
  
“In part.” Soundwave stares at him for a long moment before he turns his head and looks pointedly at the empty space next to him.  
  
Optimus assumes it to be an invitation and sits next to Soundwave, feeling less like he’s looming and more like they are friends having a conversation. “Any way I can allay those concerns?”  
  
“Time. Patience.”  
  
“Fair enough.” Optimus cycles a ventilation. It’ll do him no good to push. Whatever Soundwave and Jazz had been discussing, it is not for him to know. He’s violated enough privacy today as it is. “If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to come to me with them. I will answer them to the best of my ability.”  
  
Soundwave stares out at the crystal gardens as though tracing every glimmer and shine of the swaying growths. “Noted.”  
  
“We will also be returning to Iacon soon. A little over a week, to be more precise. Do you understand what that means?”  
  
A hint of light streaks across Soundwave’s armor. “Spark bond required,” he rumbles, and that’s when he turns and looks at Optimus, expression inscrutable behind both mask and visor. Maybe one day he will trust Optimus enough to remove one or the other.  
  
“Yes,” Optimus says. “I do not intend to push. I know that it cannot be something to which you are eager to partake, but it must be done.”  
  
“Affirmative,” Soundwave says. “Optimus’ condition not suited for immediate bonding.”  
  
Optimus sits back a little, surprised Soundwave has noticed. Optimus is not as visibly fatigued as he was yesterday, with most of the discomfort being internal.  
  
“I assure you--”  
  
“Tomorrow,” Soundwave says and pats Optimus’ knee in the most chaste, awkward gesture of conciliation Optimus has ever witnessed. “Prefer Optimus in peak condition.”  
  
“I… thank you,” Optimus says, and he pats Soundwave on the shoulder, trying to mimic a touch that was somehow both impersonal and reassuring at the same time. “Yes. Tomorrow is fine. In the evening, perhaps, after dinner?”  
  
Soundwave jerks his head in a nod. “Affirmative.” He withdraws his hand, and with a click, Laserbeak emerges from his dock, flying in a wide circle above them before landing on his shoulder. “Your hab.”  
  
“I’m free!” Laserbeak sings as she bobs back and forth on Soundwave’s shoulder. “You know you could have just said you didn’t want to talk anymore instead of making me do it for you. Honestly.” She huffs before turning an expectant gaze on Optimus. “He’s really not good at this part.”  
  
Optimus cycles his optics, a little taken aback, but recovers between one blink and the next. “But it seems you are, Laserbeak. How fortunate, then, that he should have someone he can trust in such a manner.”  
  
Laserbeak preens. “I am pretty trustworthy.”  
  
"I would say so." Optimus flashes her a smile, and Laserbeak beams back at him, her field abuzz with delight. "Have you had much chance to explore while you have been here?"  
  
"No." Laserbeak's shoulders hunch. She gives Soundwave an askance look before saying, hushed as if she's keeping it a secret, "He's overprotective. Which is unfair, if you ask me. Ravage gets to go wherever he wants, but not me."  
  
Amusement tickles at the corner of Optimus' mouth. "In Soundwave's defense, there are a lot of very large mechs here, some of whom are quite... jumpy, perhaps is a good word. I would not want to see you harmed either."  
  
"Isn't it harming me to bore me?" Laserbeak asks, hopping back and forth on Soundwave's shoulder, to which Soundwave makes a noise that only she can interpret because she twitches a wing at him. "Oh, you hush. If you're going to pretend to be a lump on a log, you can't participate in this conversation.'  
  
It's a gift of trust to see them interacting like this. Optimus has little doubt Soundwave would have walked away if he didn't want Optimus to bear witness to their relationship. It's unreasonable to expect Soundwave will trust him in full by the time they return to Iacon, but this small measure of trust proves Optimus is making progress.  
  
Soundwave is more than worth the effort.  
  
"Perhaps Soundwave would be more comfortable if you had an escort," Optimus says, trying to catch Soundwave's gaze and invite him into the conversation. "I would not mind the company, and I would be happy to give you a tour."  
  
Laserbeak chirps a gleeful sound as she swings around to look up at Soundwave. "Oh, can I? If I promise to keep in contact the _whole_ time?"  
  
"Decision yours," Soundwave says, but he looks at Optimus and adds, "Care demanded."  
  
Optimus nods. "Of course. I would let no harm come to her."  
  
Laserbeak hops in place, the tesselated plates of her wings ruffling up and down. "Right now?"  
  
"I can think of nothing I would like more," Optimus says. Tracking down Jazz will simply have to wait until later, or perhaps while showing Laserbeak around, luck will be on his side, and he'll run into Jazz.  
  
"Go," Soundwave says. "Rendezvous later."  
  
Laserbeak cheers and immediately takes flight from Soundwave's shoulder, only to land on Optimus' instead. She is lighter than he expects, though her field is a comforting buzz of warmth against his own.  
  
"We should start in the kitchen," Laserbeak says.  
  
"No treats," Soundwave says, and that warning seems to go for both of them.  
  
"He doesn't have to know," Laserbeak mock-whispers.  
  
Optimus chuckles.  
  
Soundwave ex-vents in a quiet rush, the exasperated hiss of a caretaker with unruly sparklings, but he doesn't demand Laserbeak return, and he gestures them on their way.  
  


~

  
  
Laserbeak proves to be a charming companion.  
  
She chatters non-stop as Optimus shows her around the manor -- with a brief pause in the kitchens where they mutually agree not to tell Soundwave about the treats Hot Rod gives them. Judging by the fact no one seems surprised by her presence, Optimus assumes Soundwave has already introduced his cassettes to the others.  
  
Or Laserbeak at least. Ravage doesn't seem quite as social.  
  
She doesn't leave him until it's time for the gathering. As soon as she sees Soundwave, she pecks a kiss on Optimus' cheek in farewell and takes flight, circling Soundwave's head once before landing on his shoulder. She nuzzles him, and Soundwave scratches under her chin.  
  
The affection between them is evident, and Optimus feels a small pang of longing. He is lucky to have Ultra Magnus as a dear friend, and luckier still for the relationships growing between himself and his Consorts. But he admits if only to himself how lonely it is to bear the burden of the Matrix and the office of the Prime.  
  
Perhaps one day he will be that comfortable with another.  
  
Starscream makes it a point to stop by Optimus’ chair, leaning in between Optimus and Ultra Magnus, to say, “How’re you feeling?”  
  
“I am well, thank you,” Optimus says with a smile. “I appreciate your care. I feel as though I have recovered much faster as a result.”  
  
“Of course it is. I know what I’m doing.” Starscream pecks a kiss on Optimus’ cheek, before patting him on the shoulder. “Don’t ruin my hard work now.”  
  
“I will try my best,” Optimus says, but Starscream is already gone, joining Skyfire at the other side of the table. He casts one glance back at Optimus -- a touch smug -- but then Skyfire asks him a question, and Optimus is forgotten.  
  
Starscream is definitely going to be a fun challenge.  
  
At least the atmosphere is light and friendly once more. Though, Optimus notices with a frown, Jazz is not present. Optimus has not seen him since the glimpse he caught earlier today, though now that he is aware of secret passages, it is no small wonder Jazz can move around without being seen.  
  
Jazz can’t have left the estate. Optimus has no concern of that. There are simply too many places for a mech of Jazz’s particular talents to hide. Of greater worry is the fact Jazz seems determined to make himself scarce in the first place. They don’t have long before their return to Iacon, and the bond must be completed.  
  
Nevertheless, Optimus tries to enjoy the evening meal, embracing the lack of tension and stress. Hot Rod is quick to drag out the crate of games again, insisting everyone play with different partners to maximize their bonding experience. Laserbeak is allowed to join the festivities, and without a single trouble, she charms everyone.  
  
Optimus plays a rousing game of Triad with Prowl and Soundwave and Sunstreaker and Laserbeak and isn’t surprised when Laserbeak sweeps the table with them.  
  
It’s calm and peaceful. Optimus finds himself smiling and laughing and relaxing, hoping that this is the future he has to look forward to, in between the fierce battles he’ll face before the Senate.  
  
Optimus bows out early and no one protests, especially when Starscream points out how tired he must be. He makes a stop at Jazz’s quarters, on the off chance he might get lucky, but Jazz does not answer his pings or his knocks.  
  
Optimus sighs a quiet ventilation and returns to his own quarters. He might have to beg Soundwave’s help if Jazz does not show tomorrow. While Optimus would like for his Consorts to come to him in their own time, there is a deadline, and Optimus does not want to be forced into a spark bond. He has a feeling it would be quite unpleasant.  
  
“Lights, fifty percent,” Optimus says as he moves into his habsuite, the exhaustion returning in slow, steady drips. He was right to put off bonding Soundwave until tomorrow, as much as it pains him to admit.  
  
He thinks about indulging in a short dip in the oil bath, but he worries he might slip into recharge during it. Straight to berth it is then.  
  
Optimus turns and cycles his optics. His… occupied berth? Because lo and behold, his missing Consort is stretched out across the broad surface, looking quite comfortable. Jazz has his arms pillowed behind his head, and a light behind his visor flashes in greeting.  
  
It takes every ounce of self-control Optimus possesses not to outwardly startle, though he swears his spark skips a few oscillations.  
  
“We missed you at dinner,” he says, instead of the half-dozen other things he could possibly say.  
  
Jazz grins at him, showing a bit more denta than usual. There’s something dangerous in the grin, something that sends a shiver down Optimus’ spinal strut. He suspects it’s closer to Jazz’s true nature than the easygoing, seductive smiles he usually offers.  
  
“Soundwave’s gonna have to wait his turn,” Jazz says. “Your spark is mine tomorrow.”  
  
Optimus cycles his optics. “I… what? Why?”  
  
Jazz shrugs and lazily crosses one leg over his knee, foot bouncing to an internal rhythm. “It has to happen eventually. Might as well get it over with.”  
  
His tone is light, but there’s a weight behind his words, one Optimus is wary of. He feels like he’s being tested. “Forgive me if that’s not an inspiring seduction.”  
  
“It’s not meant to be.” Jazz’s foot bobs up and down. “This is business isn’t it? I have a job to do. You have a job to do. Et cetera, et cetera.”  
  
“A job,” Optimus echoes, and cycles a ventilation. Jazz’s tone is nothing he’s heard from the mech before, and he wonders why Jazz chose now to show this side of himself. “Could I convince you to enlighten me what you mean by that?”  
  
“Would it make ya feel better to know the sordid reasons behind why I got stuck here?” Jazz sits up with a redolent stretch, a low sigh of satisfaction. “Ya want me to tell you all about how I was on my way out? How I had my whole dream in front of me, but before my resignation could process, I had to do one last job?”  
  
So.  
  
Jazz is a spy then. Optimus doesn’t know which department, and he suspects he won’t know until Jazz decides to tell him. It must be an official channel, however, rather than a blackmarket or underground one. A way for the Senate or their affiliate to keep an optic on Optimus from the inside. Perhaps, even, have a ready-made assassin once they decide Optimus is too much trouble to keep around.  
  
“Why you?” Optimus asks.  
  
“Because I’m the best, and they didn’t want to lose their best.” Jazz says it matter-of-fact, as if there’s no disputing it. He rises from the berth, every step calculated and careful. “Pawns don’t get to live their dreams. They just move where they’re put.”  
  
Optimus doesn’t move. He doesn’t think it would be in his best interest to do so. He prefers to let Jazz call the shots. “I am sorry that choice was taken from you,” he murmurs, meaning every glyph of it. “Were it up to me, such a thing would not have happened, and if I have anything to say about it, neither will it happen again.”  
  
“Yeah, I know. But I still gotta job to do in the here and now.” Jazz slinks closer, lazy grace and sensuality, which has to be on purpose. It’s as if he’s saying ‘this is why I’m the best’ with every performance. “But as Soundwave reminds me, I can’t quit the game, so I might as well make the next move and claim this.” He’s close enough now he can rap his knuckles on Optimus’ chassis.  
  
Optimus stays very, very still. His ventilations are shallow. He tries not to twitch. For all that Jazz is the smallest of his Consorts, Optimus feels as if he’s the most dangerous. That he could be smiling and seductive, but slip a vibroknife into Optimus’ central seam, and pierce his spark between one ventilation and the next.  
  
And he’d smile while doing it.  
  
Optimus works his intake. “What would it take for you to trust me?” he asks, quietly.  
  
“It’ll be a long time before I trust anyone, Prime.” Jazz smiles, his fingers dragging up and down Optimus’ central seam, a touch so light Optimus’ dermal sensors barely register it. “But keep doing what you’re doing, and you’re on your way to earning it.”  
  
“I would like to be your ally. If there is anything I can do--”  
  
“Yeah. You’ve said as much. Which is why you’re doing good so far.” Jazz grins, and his posture loosens, his smile turning more playful and lazy. “Don’t worry. I’ll behave myself.” His visor flashes in a wink.  
  
Optimus doesn’t dare ventilate his relief. Which mask is the true one? None of them? All of them? A part of him is terrified to find out.  
  
“I wish I could have known you in freedom,” Optimus says.  
  
“With enough time, you still might.” Jazz chuckles and wriggles his fingers in farewell. “See you tomorrow, Prime.”  
  
He leaves, the door clicking shut and locking behind him, with no clue as to how he’d gotten inside in the first place.  
  
Optimus allows himself to ventilate relief at last, though now exhaustion wreathes around him, far more than had been present after bonding Starscream. Jazz makes him dance on bolts and brackets.  
  
Optimus scrubs his forehead, cycling through a systems check, until his hands no longer tremble.  
  
He thinks he’ll have that soak after all. He doubts he’ll be recharging anytime soon.  
  


~

  
  
Optimus’ dreams are scattered, hazy, disorienting things. He sleeps past his alarm because his recharge does not feel restful, and it’s also an indulgence. Once they return to Iacon, Optimus will have so much work, he won’t have time to rest.  
  
The Senate will encourage it, he’s sure, but Optimus won’t let himself be swayed by their false concern.  
  
It’s nearly midday by the time Optimus rouses, and only because someone is pinging his door. He has less grace than he ought when he stumbles toward the door and keys it open, cycling his optics to clear the static from them.  
  
“Morning!” Laserbeak chirps from Soundwave’s shoulder, raising a wing in greeting.  
  
“Good morning,” Optimus says, though it’s a little too late for it to truly be morning. “I apologize if you were waiting for me. I intended to seek you out as soon as I was presentable.”  
  
Soundwave shakes his head. “Unnecessary,” he says. “Bond to commence tomorrow.”  
  
Optimus arches one orbital ridge. “Am I correct to assume Jazz informed you thusly?”  
  
Laserbeak chitters a laugh. “First thing this morning. He appeared in our room. Scared the pit out of Ravage.” She grins as if secretly delighted by the feline cassette’s discomfort. “Not often someone gets the drop on Rav.”  
  
“I see,” Optimus says. Should he be irritated that they discussed this without him or pleased they are friendly enough to have this conversation? Perhaps a bit of both.  
  
For now, he’ll leave it be, as he does most things concerning Soundwave and Jazz and their interactions. It’s a battle he doesn’t want to fight when their various relationships are already tenuous. There’ll be time to work out specifics and particulars in the centuries of living together that await them.  
  
“Jazz is gonna find you when he’s ready,” Laserbeak says. “In case you were wondering.”  
  
Optimus manages a thin smile. “Thank you, Laserbeak. I appreciate the notice.” He glances between the both of them. “And what are you two getting up to today?”  
  
“Training,” Soundwave says.  
  
Laserbeak sighs and sinks on Soundwave’s shoulder. “Training,” she agrees, her tone glum and resigned. “Me and Ravage both. It’s so boring. I can’t get out of it no matter how hard I try.” She turns a pleading look up at Soundwave, which is studiously ignored.  
  
“Perhaps tomorrow we can explore more if Soundwave is amenable,” Optimus says to try and cushion the blow.  
  
“Offer acceptable,” Soundwave says.  
  
Laserbeak immediately perks up. “But only if I train properly today, right?”  
  
“Affirmative.”  
  
She hops back and forth on Soundwave’s shoulder. “Then let’s go! Now. I want to get it over with.”  
  
Soundwave sighs, but dips his head toward Optimus, who can only chuckle and wave farewell. Laserbeak starts excitedly chattering about all of the different things they are going to see and do tomorrow. They make for an interesting pair, the laconic carrier-mech and his cheerful cassette.  
  
Perhaps Optimus will befriend Ravage in time, but Ravage reminds him a lot of Jazz, and that is a relationship that will take effort, and allowing Ravage his space. Fortunately, Optimus is very patient.  
  
He has enough time to bathe and down a few doses of medical mid-grade -- flavored with a few packets Starscream was kind enough to leave him -- before there’s a secondary ping at his door. Optimus can’t say he’s surprised when he answers it and finds Jazz standing outside with a big smile on his face, bouncing up and down on his heels.  
  
He and Soundwave had to have planned this.  
  
“You look rested,” he says as he slips past Optimus and into the room. “That’s a good sign.”  
  
“Do come in,” Optimus says to the empty space where Jazz had been. He closes the door and turns to face Jazz, who seems to be full of odd energy.  
  
His visor is bright, and his field is all over the place, moving lightning-quick, making it difficult for Optimus to read anything out of it. His expression is odd as well -- not the mask of false enthusiasm, nor the dark cast of thinly-veiled resentment either.  
  
“So how’s this going to work?” Jazz asks as he struts around the room, looking at the various pieces of furniture as though he hasn’t seen them before, though he must have looked his fill last night when he broke into Optimus’ quarters.  
  
Optimus takes a seat in the sitting area, trying to affect an air of composure. “However would make you comfortable.”  
  
Jazz snorts and gives Optimus a peripheral look. “I think we both know that the optimal method would be to not do it at all.”  
  
Optimus folds his hands in his lap. “Would it comfort you to know that once the initial bond is complete, there is no further need to be intimate? That I will share the bulk of the weight of the bond?”  
  
“Mm. Marginally.” Jazz walks a slow circuit of the room before he comes back to Optimus, standing in front of him, hands on his hips. “I’m not meant to be known, Prime. This is a slagstorm of a situation.”  
  
“Do you feel this is a punishment?”  
  
Jazz’s lips curl. “For daring to want to be free? Absolutely.” He eyes Optimus’ position as though he’s considering the structure of it. “There’s no greater threat to them.”  
  
“Them?” Optimus echoes.  
  
Jazz chuckles and waggles a finger at Optimus. “Ah, ah. That kind of knowledge comes with trust, Prime. We’re not there yet.”  
  
“You’re about to share your spark with me. Perhaps you might consider calling me Optimus?”  
  
“I’ll consider it.” Jazz claps his hands and rubs his palms together. “So. No point in putting off tomorrow what can be done today.” He takes Optimus’ hand, and when Optimus expects to be tugged off the chair, instead he’s presented with a lapful of an alluring, but dangerous spy.  
  
Optimus once again freezes, unsure where to put his hands, though Jazz solves that for him by placing Optimus’ hands on his hips.  
  
“There, that’s better,” he murmurs, his own hands landing on Optimus’ chassis, his thumbs tracing the line of Optimus’ central seam. He tilts his head to the side. “I think we should forego the game. We both know why we’re here.”  
  
“We do.” Optimus’ spark quickens its rhythm, heat flushing through his frame in a confused tangle of want-anxiety-need-resolve. “I am right where you want me. I will not move until you say when.”  
  
Jazz chuckles and leans in, nipping the bottom of Optimus’ chin. “I don’t think you know how dangerous it is to give me that much power.”  
  
“I am quite aware how dangerous you are, but if I want you to trust me, I should first trust you,” Optimus murmurs.  
  
“You’re an absurdly gentle spark. Politics are going to break you,” Jazz groans, thumb still tracing Optimus’ central seam, up and down, up and down, making his derma tingle. “Good thing you got mechs like me and Sounders to do the dirty work.”  
  
Optimus draws in a slow ventilation. “I would not, and will not, ever ask either of you to do such a thing.”  
  
Jazz grins, and his vents are a puff of damp heat over Optimus’ audial. “Oh, sweetspark. That’s the thing, you don’t ask, we just _do_.” He pauses, right over the main divide in Optimus’ central seam. “Open up, Optimus. We got work to do.”  
  
Primus save him.  
  
Optimus is in over his head.  
  
He obeys.  
  


***


	9. Chapter 9

“What’s it feel like?”  
  
Optimus furrows his orbital ridge, looking up from the scratch on Jazz’s thigh he’s attempting to buff out. He’s not as skilled as Sunstreaker, but Jazz had done the same for him, so Optimus is inclined to return the favor.  
  
“You will have to be more specific.”  
  
Jazz lounges on the berth, idly sipping a pouch of coolant, his leg propped on Optimus’ lap. “Having that many sparks bonded to yours.”  
  
Optimus contemplates the question. “It is hard to put into words. My spark feels heavier. Fuller. Occasionally, I will catch a whisper, a thought or an emotion that is not mine, and separating them can be difficult.”  
  
“Sounds terrible,” Jazz murmurs. “Invasive, too.”  
  
“I suppose it can be, to a certain point of view,” Optimus says as he focuses on his work, watching Jazz from his periphery. “It is not dissimilar to what I experienced after assimilating the Matrix, however, so it is a sensation to which I have grown accustomed.”  
  
“Huh.” Jazz makes a non-committal noise, and pulls his leg out of Optimus’ lap, shifting to replace it with the other. “Feels like an itch I can’t scratch. Like I got optics on me at all times. Makes me antsy.”  
  
Optimus rests his hand on Jazz’s thigh, looking up at him. “I hate to sound trite, but you will adjust to it with time.”  
  
“Yeah. I know. Don’t want to have to.”  
  
Jazz’s visor dims. He lapses into quiet, his field a gentle buzz against Optimus’. He can still sense nothing from it, but it is not as unsettling as before. Now that he knows Jazz, despite all Jazz hides from him, Optimus is not so wary.  
  
“It wasn’t that bad,” Jazz says after a moment. “Could use a little practice.”  
  
Optimus gives him a look.  
  
Jazz holds up his hands. “I’m just sayin’. You could use some lessons.” He gestures to himself with a thumb. “I volunteer.”  
  
“I thought you were not interested in a place in my berth.”  
  
“Well…” Jazz trails off and gives Optimus a wicked smile. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for teaching old mechs new tricks.”  
  
Optimus ventilates, but Jazz’s smile is so charming, it’s hard to be truly irritated. If Jazz is feeling comfortable enough to tease, Optimus is all for it.  
  
So he finishes polishing away the last scratch and gives Jazz’s thigh a pat. “I think it is time for dinner. We should go before someone comes looking.”  
  
“Mmm. I’m tempted to make them come hunt you down. That way I can strut out of your quarters like the metallocat caught the canary.” Jazz stretches his arms and sits up, legs draped over Optimus’ lap. “Wonder how envious Roddy will be.”  
  
“I do not think he has a jealous strut in his frame,” Optimus says as he lifts Jazz’s legs from his lap and sets them aside so he can rise. “He may be envious he could not join, but if you are looking for a deeper reaction, I do not think you will find it.”  
  
Jazz taps his chin. “Hmm. You have a point.” He rolls off the berth, bouncing on his heels as he stretches. “Do you think any of us are the jealous type?”  
  
“Consorts know they are expected to share the Prime.”  
  
“That’s not an answer, Optimus,” Jazz says.  
  
Optimus gives him a sidelong look. “I think jealousy is a matter of perspective. It may come down to who thinks they have the most favor, but I will not allow such a thing to happen. No one mech will have my favor more than the others.”  
  
Jazz chuckles and pats Optimus’ on the hip. “You’re so cute when you’re naive. The spark does what it wants and at some point, one of us is going to mean more to you than the others. It’s inevitable.”  
  
“I certainly hope that is not the case,” Optimus says.  
  
“I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” Jazz points out as he heads toward the door, leaving Optimus to follow. “I mean, so long as two consenting adults, yada yada, it’s not all bad. You just gotta tread the line.”  
  
“There are going to be many ways in which I shall have to tread the line, so to speak,” Optimus says.  
  
“And I don’t envy you one bit for it.” Jazz beams a smile and squeezes his hand before pulling away to stroll with some distance between them.  
  
Cuddly in the berth, but distant in the hall, will Jazz ever cease to be a study in contradiction to him? Optimus is sure he’ll never know.  
  
When they arrive, Jazz’s posture shifts into someone partially smug, and partially celebratory. He strides in with his shoulders back and a large smile on his face, to which Starscream rolls his optics and says,  
  
“We’ve all had a taste, Jazz. You’re not special.”  
  
“At this point, it’s a competition, Starshine,” Jazz says, swinging into Starscream’s personal space to drag his fingers along the leading edge of Starscream’s left wing. “We should compare notes and see who came out on top.”  
  
Starscream arches one orbital ridge. “Sweetspark, I always come out on top,” he drawls.  
  
“Primus, save me,” Skyfire groans, pinching the bridge of his olfactory sensor. “Don’t pay either of them any mind, Optimus. I’m sure they don’t mean it.” He gives Starscream a narrow look, to which Starscream smiles brightly, showing off his pointed denta.  
  
“Frankly, I think they should frag each other and get it over with,” Prowl says from behind the safety of his datapad. “We would all be relieved for it.”  
  
Starscream sniffs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
  
“I have higher standards,” Jazz says as he throws himself into a chair and tilts into Hot Rod’s space. “Like this bit of hot stuff right here. He’s right up my alley.”  
  
Hot Rod leans away from him with both orbital ridges raised. “What about my standards? Maybe you’re not high enough for mine?”  
  
Laughter rings around the table, but Jazz is nonplussed by the playful rejection. He waves Hot Rod off and swipes a goblet of engex from the table, leaning back in his chair.  
  
“All right, then who is your standards?” Jazz asks.  
  
Hot Rod very pointedly drags his gaze away from Jazz and looks directly at Optimus, who tried to take his chair without attracting any of the attention Jazz seems to invite. “There’s only one mech here who fits that description.”  
  
“I appreciate the compliment,” Optimus says.  
  
Hot Rod grins, his spoiler halves fluttering.  
  
“There is a meteor shower tonight,” Skyfire says, cutting through the noise. “Our orbit ensures we’ll have a clear view of it.”  
  
“Interesting,” Prowl says. “When does it start?”  
  
“If everyone is amenable, we can take our meal to the roof. It’s in progress as we speak” Skyfire’s already rising with a tray in hand; he’s clearly been collecting engex and treats since the table was set.  
  
“If it means we can enjoy ourselves without dreading our eventual return to Iacon, I’m all for it.” Ratchet stands and grabs two heavy pitchers of engex. He kicks Ironhide’s chair. “Come on. This is somethin’ that oughta be on your rustbucket list.”  
  
Ironhide scowls at him. “Then one of those pitchers better be for me.”  
  
“Only if you grab that basket of rust sticks,” Ratchet calls over his shoulder.  
  
Ironhide, Optimus notices, grumbles but obeys. He’s all bluster and no actual bite, Optimus thinks fondly. Given what he knows of Chromia, Ironhide probably sees a lot of her in Ratchet. No wonder they get along so well.  
  
“I think it is a fine idea, Skyfire. I’ll join you.” Optimus rises as quickly as he’d sat down, gathering up his own preferred treats plus his cube of medical grade and Starscream-provided flavor enhancers.  
  
No one opts to stay behind. They all wander up onto the roof, where Jazz helps direct them to the more stable sections, and puts the heavier mechs on the sturdier spots. Perhaps it would’ve been wiser to view the shower from the front drive, but there’s something more romantic about perching on the roof.  
  
It is a dark night, with the false sun gone from the sky, but the stars glitter like diamonds and sure enough, the black is pierced by streaks of orange and yellow in arrhythmic intervals. Luna One shines down on them, the black mark beside it eerie for Luna Two’s absence.  
  
Optimus has Hot Rod on one side, and Sunstreaker on the other. The rest of the Consorts have spread out, comfortably chatting and sharing engex and treats. The night sky offers a gorgeous view, and for a few hours, Ratchet is right.  
  
None of them think about their return to Iacon in a week.  
  
Optimus doesn’t consider it until he’s on his way back to his quarters, pleasantly warm and sated, visions of meteors saved to his databanks, and too many recordings of myths, told by Starscream and Skyfire to match the constellations in the sky.  
  
This peace is only theirs for a week yet. Afterward, they will be plunged into political games and subject to the most intense scrutiny. Each and every one of them will find themselves under the microscope, Optimus especially. His life will never be simple again.  
  
He wonders what they think when they look at him. How many of his Consorts fear that their return to Iacon will cause a change in Optimus, that his friendliness has only been a mask to ensure their compliance. It is easy for Optimus to rest knowing that isn’t the case, but how many of his Consorts find their recharge plagued by night purges of what might be?  
  
The worry gnaws at Optimus as he returns to his quarters -- briefly hesitating for fear Jazz might be on his berth again. It’s a concern that’s for naught as his habsuite is empty.  
  
Still.  
  
He searches every nook and cranny as best he can until he’s absolutely sure he’s alone. Only then does Optimus collapse on his berth, feeling the weight of the last month bearing him down into the plush surface.  
  
He’s in recharge before he has time to fully rest his head.  
  


~

  
  
Why is it when Optimus is deliberately seeking out one of his Consorts, he cannot find them, but he can so easily stumble upon the others?  
  
To be fair, this is only in regards to Soundwave and Jazz, who seem to hide from him and choose when they want to be found. It still frustrates him.  
  
Optimus supposes he could simply comm Soundwave, but he hasn’t done so for any of his Consorts, because it feels too much like he is summoning them. As if he considers them to be his servants, available at his beck and call. He would rather put in the effort to understand them and find them on his own. He’d like to think they appreciate it.  
  
It’s an important distinction, but one he may have to abandon when it comes to Soundwave and Jazz. Sometimes, there are matters of urgency, and Optimus can’t spend his time aimlessly wandering in search of an errant Consort.  
  
He can find Ratchet easily enough, always in the medbay with one victim or another -- today it appears to be Prowl, though Prowl is far more amenable to the maintenance check than anyone else. So long as Ratchet lets him read his datapad, he submits to the painless scans to ensure his optimal health.  
  
“Honestly, I think you’re going to be my favorite,” Ratchet says.  
  
“I am often the favorite,” Prowl says.  
  
Ratchet snorts. “And so modest, too.”  
  
“What is the point of modesty when it is the truth?”  
  
Optimus leaves them to it.  
  
Hot Rod and Starscream are in the kitchen, trying a new recipe apparently, with Skyfire overseeing from his perch at a corner table. It is far too small for a shuttle, and he looks comically large crammed onto the stool, but either he’s used to it or he doesn’t seem to mind.  
  
He scribbles diligently across a large holoboard. “What are we using for the beta coefficient?” Skyfire asks as he nibbles on the end of a stylus. .  
  
“Galaxon’s equation,” Starscream answers without looking and points to one of many ingredients spread out in front of them. “Just a pinch of that, Hot Rod. It’s concentrated.”  
  
“Got it!” Hot Rod leans across the counter, nearly toppling over a bowl that Starscream is quick to rescue, and snags the slim shaker. “How spicy is this going to be anyway?”  
  
“Galaxon’s equation isn’t specific enough. I think we should use Mica’s derivative,” Skyfire says.  
  
“That depends on how much we use,” Starscream says, twisting open the shaker and holding it over the bowl. He gives it a few firm shakes and says, “Not if we trim the outcome by applying Perceptor’s constant.”  
  
Skyfire’s wingtips flutter. “Perceptor’s constant?”  
  
“It’s relatively new. You’ve been off planet since he published the theorem. I’ll send you the proposal.” Starscream caps the shaker and sets it aside before pushing the bowl toward Hot Rod. “Now stir.”  
  
Optimus tiptoes away. There’s enough conversation going on there he doesn’t think he should get in the middle of it.  
  
Ironhide and Ultra Magnus are not on the training grounds, but in the library, surrounded by stacks of military texts, planning for the possibility of battle, which Optimus suspects they are doing for fun.  
  
“I still say ground troops are what win the war,” Ironhide says, gesturing with a datapad like it’s going to win the argument for him.  
  
“Infantry are too often treated like cannon fodder. We need a better plan than ‘throw more soldiers at it’,” Ultra Magnus points out.  
  
Ironhide rolls his optics. “Y’know that’s not what I’m sayin’. If we poured our resources into making the infantry more effective, and trained the cavalry and the aerials to provide a better support rather than treat the infantry like rust-stains on the bottom of their feet, then maybe, we’d stand a better chance.”  
  
“I’m not refuting that point.” Ultra Magnus points to a datapad, tapping it with his fingertip. “I’m merely suggesting we consider alternatives that result in less infantry on the ground, so we have less casualties.”  
  
It sounds to Optimus like they are having two different arguments, but debating back and forth as if the topic is the same.  
  
Far be it from him to intrude, so he doesn’t. He backs away slowly.  
  
Optimus passes a window and sees Jazz in the garden with his nyckelharpa, the faintest strains of music caught by Optimus’ advanced audio receptors. He thinks Jazz is playing for the sake of it, until he catches movement and realizes Laserbeak is out there with him, staring enraptured. Perhaps Ravage is with them, if he’s not skulking around wherever it is Ravage likes to skulk.  
  
Optimus is in the middle of a second circuit around the house when he turns a corner, and nearly collides with Soundwave, who reaches out to steady him.  
  
“Apologies,” Soundwave rumbles, and for a moment, Optimus tries very hard not to gape.  
  
Clearly, this is where Sunstreaker has gone as well, because Soundwave’s armor gleams like new. Every imperfection has been immaculately removed and replaced with a crystal shine. Accentuating lines of paint draw attention to the sturdy angles of Soundwave’s frame. Even his visor has been polished.  
  
“You are stunning,” Optimus says, his mouth getting away from him before his processor can remind him he needs to be more diplomatic. “Sunstreaker, I wager?”  
  
Soundwave’s energy field flushes with embarrassment. “Affirmative,” he says. “Thank you.”  
  
“Did he completely repaint you?” Optimus asks, resisting the urge to run his fingers over Soundwave’s armor. It is such a deep, lustrous navy now that it aches to be touched.  
  
Soundwave cycles a ventilation and shifts his weight. “Sunstreaker insisted,” he says, and the tiniest whine of an engine accompanies the mild tangle of irritation and resignation before he adds, “Final bond to be completed today, affirmative?”  
  
“Yes.” Optimus politely coughs into his hand and steps back, allowing Soundwave some space. “Where would you be more comfortable?”  
  
“My quarters,” Soundwave says.  
  
“Lead the way.” Optimus flashes Soundwave a smile and falls into step beside him, occasionally glancing at Soundwave to admire his new finish. Sunstreaker had really gone all out this time.  
  
“I noticed Laserbeak in the garden with Jazz,” Optimus says, to distract himself from too much staring and therefore, unnerving Soundwave in the process. “Is Ravage with him as well or do you have a... guest?”  
  
Soundwave taps his dock, which makes a low, hollow sound. “Both cassettes with Jazz,” he says. “Privacy optimal.”  
  
Optimus nods. “And is there anything you would like to ask me before we complete the bond?”  
  
“Negative.”  
  
“Pragmatism,” Optimus says, careful to keep the frown from his face. “You told Jazz that he had a job to do. Is that the way you see it? As a job you have to do?”  
  
Soundwave pauses to look at him, head cocked. “Job also Optimus’.”.  
  
“Fair point,” Optimus concedes, but he ventilates a sigh. “There are so many of you I wish I could have known in freedom. I suspect we might have even been genuine friends.”  
  
“Possibility yet exists.”  
  
Optimus makes a non-committal noise. “There will always be a part of me which will wonder if the friendship is true, or a construction of the situation.”  
  
“Impossible to judge. Circumstances complicated.”  
  
“I suppose you are right.”  
  
Soundwave’s room is in the west wing, the last on the hall and around a corner, nearly hidden from the others. The rooms had not been assigned, other than Optimus declaring which one would be Skyfire’s due to the shuttle’s size. He’s not surprised Soundwave had chosen this particular suite. Jazz, after all, had chosen the very same suite, but on the east wing.  
  
Soundwave, like Jazz, had also installed a bit of extra security on his door. His access code is far more complicated than Optimus’ own. Inside, his room is a study in angles and shadows, the shutters drawn over the windows to only allow thin strips of light, and lamps rearranged to create dim pools of illumination.  
  
“Ravage prefers dark,” Soundwave says, by way of explanation.  
  
“You care very much for your cassettes,” Optimus says, flicking on his lights to dim, to ensure he does not trip on anything, though the floor is immaculate. “I would like very much to learn more about cassette and carrier culture if you would feel so inclined.”  
  
“Later,” Soundwave says.  
  
Optimus tilts his head. “Of course.”  
  
The berth is against the far wall, posed to have a clear view of the door and windows, which makes it seem awkwardly crouched in the room. Optimus’ spark squeezes in his chassis. That Soundwave should feel so unsafe in general, and even here, hurts. How many others are like him? How many Cybertronians exist every day with a general dread for their safety?  
  
Soundwave hovers next to it. He looks at Optimus, and even with the mask and the visor, Optimus can tell he’s awkward. He’s no more used to this than Optimus is.  
  
He smiles, to put Soundwave at ease. “I know this is not an ideal situation for you. Have you bared your spark to anyone before?”  
  
“Ravage. Laserbeak. None others,” Soundwave says, and his armor shivers, glistening in the low light, as it slicks closer to his frame. “Risk inadvisable.”  
  
Optimus can’t hide his frown. “Then I am sorry it has to be in such a way. If it were up to me--”  
  
“Apology accepted but ultimately pointless,” Soundwave says, and his shoulders slump to a fair degree. “Apologize by changing.”  
  
It is hard not to take such things personally, and Optimus still feels the sting of the censure, though it is not his fault. “Understood,” he says.  
  
Neither of them, however, move. Soundwave stays as still as a statue, and Optimus realizes he’s going to have to move them forward, so he sits on the edge of the berth. There’s plenty of room for Soundwave to join him.  
  
Or not, because Soundwave still hasn’t moved.  
  
Optimus pats the berth beside him, wordless invitation. “I do not intend to rush you. If you prefer to wait, we still have a couple of days.”  
  
“No.” Soundwave lurches into motion and sits beside him, stiff and unyielding. “It… must be done.” He rests his hands on his thighs, and stares at the ground.  
  
Optimus gnaws on the inside of his cheek and lets himself sag, losing his upright posture. “I had never shared my spark before either. When the Matrix chose me, I had to show my spark to a room full of strangers. I wasn’t given a choice in that either.” He rubs his central seam, remembering the terror of that moment, the humiliation.  
  
So many faces, watching him with disdain and awe in equal numbers. There’d been jealousy and excitement and anger. He’d seen derision. He’d seen hope. And the first time the Matrix touched his spark had been agony, one everyone had witnessed. They watched him writhe, listened to him shriek, with their dispassionate stares, and even when he stood in the aftermath, a completely different mech, he still felt the weight of their stares.  
  
“It’s a unique feeling of vulnerability, and I’d been fortunate to be sparked in a segment of society where I wasn’t as concerned for my safety. I can’t begin to imagine how it feels for someone who has already spent their whole functioning in a state of constant fear.”  
  
Optimus cycles a ventilation, shaky though it is, and nearly startles when there’s a light touch to his hand. He looks over at Soundwave, who leans in toward him, less a solid block of anxiety, now softened with sympathy.  
  
There’s a quiet click before Soundwave says, “You had no choice either.” He rests his hand over Optimus’, his field reaching out in quiet offering. “You understand enough.”  
  
A secondary click precedes the gradual retraction of Soundwave’s mouthplate, and for the first time, Optimus is granted a glimpse of Soundwave’s face. There are small marks around his lips, his cheeks, like he’s been in a physical altercation once or twice. They do not detract from his appeal, and Optimus suspects the mask had not been out of vanity, but out of self-preservation.  
  
Masks to hide behind. Masks to protect oneself. No wonder Jazz and Soundwave get along so well.  
  
“Thank you,” Optimus says. “Perhaps in the same line, if I show you mine first, you will feel more comfortable baring your spark to me?”  
  
The corner of Soundwave’s lips curve in a smile, crooked though it is by the scar bisecting the seam of his mouth. “Together,” he says, gesturing to his own chassis. “No one is more vulnerable than the other.”  
  
“That sounds fair,” Optimus says. “On the count of three?”  
  
Soundwave, for the first time ever, chuckles. It’s an odd, raspy sound, like he has to brush the dust off his vocalizer to produce it, but Optimus cherishes it all the same.  
  
“I will count,” he says.  
  
Optimus grins. Sometimes all it takes is a little common ground.  
  


~

  
  
All of the datapads he’s read are nothing in the face of the reality of hosting ten tertiary bonds within his spark. It’s scientifically impossible, but he swears each connection is jostling for space with the other, the tiny representations of his various Consorts milling around, trying to get comfortable.  
  
Skyfire wants to be near Starscream, Jazz would prefer distance between himself and everyone else, Prowl and Sunstreaker dance around each other in a decent simulation of their habit of learning to dance, Hot Rod wants to be nestled closer to the core of Optimus’ spark where Ultra Magnus has planted himself like an impenetrable wall. Ratchet runs herd on Ironhide and Soundwave lingers as distant as possible as if he prefers to observe.  
  
It’s an odd, nearly tangible sensation, despite science telling him it’s impossible.  
  
Optimus’ spark quivers, swelling and shrinking, expanding and contracting, as if needing to remold the space within his chamber, to make room for the bonds.  
  
He rests after bonding with Soundwave, and Soundwave is kind enough not to evict Optimus from his quarters, but to let Optimus recharge on his berth after supplying both energon and coolant. He masks himself once more in the aftermath, but his field is open to Optimus, warm with relief and a new sense of kinship.  
  
Optimus wonders if he’s been adopted as a sort of ancillary cassette, because Soundwave is taking care of him to an extent that outshines even Starscream’s nannying. Optimus allows it because it feels nice, and it seems to comfort Soundwave as well.  
  
He dozes, in and out, and in his brief periods of lucidity, the bonds with his Consorts strum the warmest. When he concentrates, he can feel each and every one of them, or at least the shape of them, impressions of them.  
  
It’s as nice as it is disorienting.  
  
Eventually, Soundwave leaves to retrieve his cassettes from Jazz before he decides to keep them, and Optimus heads to his quarters for a quick shower and some time to get his thoughts in order.  
  
He is not the least bit surprised when he emerges in a cloud of steam to find Ultra Magnus seated as his console, typing like a madmech. He, at least, has the code to Optimus’ room, so it’s less of a startling shock.  
  
“I presume you’ve bonded with Soundwave,” Ultra Magnus says, his fingers flying across the keys in a steady staccato.  
  
“I have.” Optimus sits nearby, idly rubbing a cloth over his armor to pick up the last of the damp spots. “I think we have all made great strides with each other. The Senate expects us to return with thinly veiled hatred for each other. They’ll be very surprised.”  
  
“I am in agreement. At least, from the conversations I’ve had anyway.” Ultra Magnus types a few more things before swiveling in the chair to look at Optimus. “Everyone is tentatively hopeful, many of them eager to see what changes might be wrought if we work together.”  
  
Optimus tosses the dirtied rag into the laundry bin. “When I think about how it began, I’m amazed we made so much progress.”  
  
“It’s because you’re genuine and sincere. They can sense it.” Ultra Magnus stands and rests a hand on Optimus’ shoulder. “It’s because you’re you. The Matrix chose well this time.”  
  
Optimus lays a hand over Ultra Magnus’, rubbing his thumb over the back of his hand. “Let’s hope so. But we both know this would have been a hopeless venture without your support.”  
  
“I’m happy to take at least seventy percent of the credit.” Ultra Magnus chuckles and gives his shoulder a squeeze. “Come on. We’ve got two more dinners to get through, and then it’s time to face reality.”  
  
“Thanks for the reminder,” Optimus drawls.  
  
Optimus doesn’t know how many more moments like this he’s going to get, so he soaks it up for all that it’s worth.  
  
He and Ultra Magnus walk to the gathering room together, and Optimus likes to imagine this is part of what the future has in store for him, many walks with Ultra Magnus, congenially discussing Cybertron’s future.  
  
Optimus takes his usual seat, with Ultra Magnus beside him, and he waits until all of his Consorts arrive, in twos and threes, in high spirits all of them. Even Jazz walks alongside Soundwave, chatting animatedly while Soundwave listens.  
  
Optimus waits until everyone has taken a seat and served themselves from the various treats before he stands, cycling a ventilation to gather attention.  
  
“Oh, Primus, are you giving us another speech?” Ratchet grouses as he liberally fills his glass with the highest concentration of engex they have.  
  
Ironhide kicks Ratchet’s chair and says, “Have some respect, rustbucket.”  
  
Optimus chuckles. “I promise to keep it brief,” he says as Ratchet tosses a glare at Ironhide. “I don’t want to take up too much of the relaxation time we have left.”  
  
“How long do we have?” Skyfire asks.  
  
“The transport comes for us the day after tomorrow,” Ultra Magnus answers as he arranges his treat selection and energon at perfect angles. “Immediately after sunrise.”  
  
Jazz grumbles. “Too damn early.”  
  
“They’re not leaving any of us behind, so they can wait if we’re not ready to go at the aft-crack of dawn,” says Ratchet, saluting Jazz with his engex.  
  
Optimus looses a polite cough into his fist. “While that is true,” he says, attempting to veer the conversation back toward him, “I would like to reiterate how grateful I am for the chance each of you has given me. I know that none of you chose to be here--”  
  
“I did!” Hot Rod chimes in, waving his hand wildly.  
  
Low laughter echoes around the table. Optimus tosses him an indulgent smile.  
  
“Yes, you did. And so did Ultra Magnus, for which I am forever grateful,” Optimus says. “That is not the case for most of you, however, and yet, you have done me a great service by allowing me a chance to explain my plans for the future and get to know you a little bit.”  
  
“You’re pretty persuasive,” Starscream drawls.  
  
Optimus’ face warms, and he tilts his head at Starscream in thanks. “I appreciate the compliment.” He tips his glass, still full of flavored med grade, at his assembled Consorts. “We will have a lot of work to do when we get back. There are going to be many, powerful mechs who will not be happy about the kinds of changes I plan to make, but they must be done. I vow that the promise I made each of you will come to fruition.”  
  
“I thought you said this was going to be a short speech,” Sunstreaker grumbles, but there’s a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, like he’s teasing.  
  
“You are right, I did,” Optimus concedes, so he lifts his glass once again. “A toast, then, to the bonds we have made, the changes we are going to bring, and a Senate who is soon going to realize how short-sighted it has been.”  
  
“I’ll drink to that,” Jazz says.  
  
They all drink, in fact, and Optimus sits back down, waving them on. He’d promised a short speech, and really, he’s said all he needs to say to his Consorts. They know his intentions. They have tasted his spark. They have a piece of him as much as he carries a fraction of them.  
  
The atmosphere is lively. Hopeful. His Consorts chatter amongst each other. Food and drink are plentiful. At some point, Jazz climbs onto the table with the nyckelharpa Optimus spotted earlier and starts to play a rousing tune. It takes little coaxing to get everyone on their feet, to start dancing like they had in the early days.  
  
Optimus doesn’t even have to urge Ultra Magnus to do it. Hot Rod is already there, tugging the large mech out of his chair, smiling up at him with bright optics, impossible to resist.  
  
“It’s my turn to show you a thing or two,” Sunstreaker teases as he pulls Prowl into the center of the open space, his mouth a curve of wickedness.  
  
Soundwave does not dance, but Laserbeak does, and she hops back and forth on his shoulder, trilling along to Jazz’s music, only stopping to accept the tiny bits of treats Soundwave feeds her. Occasionally, Optimus catches a glimpse of Ravage, skulking about, but he thinks he might have imagined things because the dark feline is there and gone again.  
  
“Come on, Ratchet. Show me why they call you the party ambulance,” Starscream says as he sets one of Ratchet’s tires to spinning with a flick of his wrist.  
  
Ratchet grunts, but there’s challenge in his optics. “That’s an old nick, Seeker. How’d you hear about it?”  
  
“Dance with me, and I’ll tell you,” Starscream says, bouncing toward the open floor with Ratchet hot on his heels, giving chase to a Seeker with flirtatiously flicking wings.  
  
Perhaps the engex flows a little too easily tonight, but there’s no harm in that, Optimus supposes. They are on their vacation before they face the real trials. They need to soak up all the peace they can get.  
  
A hand claps down on his shoulder.  
  
“Come on, Prime. You, too,” says Ironhide, leaning in to pluck Optimus’ drink with his other hand and set it on the table. “Right now, until we go back, you’re just Optimus.”  
  
“I will always be Optimus to you all,” Optimus replies, but he lets Ironhide pull him from his chair, out into the chaos that is several frames trying to wriggle and spin in too small a space. “But perhaps I may be Orion every once in awhile.”  
  
Ironhide grins and fits an arm around Optimus’ waist, pulling him into the angles and dips of Ironhide’s frame. “I think that can be arranged. Now show me what those hips of yours can do.”  
  
He has very nice hips, Optimus remembers Ironhide saying, particularly the night they completed their spark bond and Ironhide had been full of many, many compliments.  
  
“Save a dance for me,” Hot Rod demands as he goes grooving by, on his way to claim Skyfire and drag the shuttle away from his stack of scientific manuals.  
  
Optimus chuckles and lets himself be carried away by the joy of the moment, the precipice of hope to which they all cling.  
  
When they return to Iacon, things would be very different, but right here, right now, Optimus is confident the future is going to be a lot brighter.  
  
Maybe there’s something to the Matrix’s choice in him after all.  
  


****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love and thanks to everyone who has read, commented, and enjoyed this fic. Special thanks to SunnySidesofBlue who sponsored it as well. No, this isn't the end of the series. Yes, there will eventually be more. Promise. <3


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